


Recreated Fire

by MaiKusakabe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fanart, Gen, Harry is Ace, M/M, Non-explicit sexual content (so far only in flashbacks), Past Character Death, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 171,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3739003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaiKusakabe/pseuds/MaiKusakabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter has always dreamed about a dark haired boy, his thrilling life and adventures. When his Hogwarts letter arrives, he discovers a new, magical world, and that not everything is what it seems to be, all in the form of a mythical bird that insists on befriending him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The boy who dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)
> 
> This is a story that I started posting on ff.net a while ago and I'm now updating here as well. I'll update the tags as the story advances :)
> 
> Before anything else, you're warned that this story, though it'll take a while to get there as we begin in first year, is yaoi, slash, male x male or whatever else you want to call it. If you don't like it, please just leave, no one forces you to read. If you do like it, then I hope you like my story as well ^^
> 
> It's Marco/Ace, and I swear there's no bestiality in here xD The story will diverge from canon as we advance.
> 
> So far this story has 19 chapters posted, so updates for a while should be frequent enough :)
> 
> This is being beta read by TheRedHarlequin, who was kind enough not to murder me for throwing the story at her out of nowhere when this first came out xD She also puts up with my rambling, which is no small feat, believe me.
> 
> Now, this chapter is the introduction. I tried to go fast over what we already know so we can get into the story itself as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the story cover, by FoxMii (http://foxmii.deviantart.com/) :)

_  
_

_“From now on, we’re brothers!”_

Harry Potter woke up to the racket that accompanied his cousin as he stomped loudly and heavily down the stairs and he groaned. It couldn’t be too early, as Dudley probably didn’t even knew the possibility of waking up early during the summer holidays existed, but he had been asleep and, taking advantage of his wonderfully chore-free day, Harry had wanted to sleep in as much as possible. Alright, so it wasn’t as much a chore-free day as it was the second day of the three he would spend not allowed to leave his closet for more than two five minute visits to the bathroom as a consequence of his last stunt.

But, seriously, it wasn’t as if he could have avoided it. He didn’t care that his Aunt and Uncle always thought anything that happened was his fault, or that they believed whatever nonsense Dudley whined about. He wasn’t going to let his whale of a cousin chase him around with the stupid goons he called friends just because if he fought back Uncle Vernon would whack him over the head and stuff him in the closet for the next few days. He much preferred to fight back and get stuck here a couple of days.

And that’s why, when Dudley had decided to try again his ‘Harry Hunting’, Harry had beaten his friends into a crying mess of preteen idiots. He had been careful, however, not to touch Dudley, as he didn’t want to have a repeat of what had happened the last time he had beaten him, but the message had been clear: by the time Harry had been done with his friends, Dudley had been a trembling mess. As always. Anybody would expect that, after the spectacular failures that all the previous attempts at that game had been, those idiots would have learned the lesson and leave him alone. But then, no smart guy would be Dudley’s friend, so Harry guessed it made sense that they agreed to help every time Dudley decided to try.

After every attempt, it always took a longer time for the next one to happen.

That explained why Harry was confined to his cupboard right now. These punishments, in his opinion, were both a curse and a blessing.

The curse took two forms. The first one was that Harry liked to be outside, he really did. There he could run around, climb trees and mock-fight with the air as much as he wanted.

When he was little, he used to fight against the neighbourhood’s kids, though it would be more accurate to say that the children thought the weird, poorly dressed boy no one cared about would be a good target for her taunts and Harry proved to them how sorely mistaken they were almost every time. There had been only a couple of exceptions where he had lost, and that had been when a group of at least three years older kids picked on him, but that had been before. Harry hadn’t lost against anybody in two whole years, and by now the only ones who occasionally attempted to fight him were Dudley’s gang of morons. The others stayed well away from him, calling him a monster or other names but were too terrified of his strength to do more than glower when they thought Harry wasn’t looking.

Then there was the second reason, that was by far the biggest inconvenience in Harry’s opinion: no food. The Dursleys weren’t exactly generous with the amount of food they gave him, and even less with its quality, but if Harry could go out, he could procure food on his own, even if he had to resort to eating and then running away or, as he had learned when he became older, steal. Harry wasn't a great pickpocket, in fact his few attempts at it had been disastrous, but he had found other ways of procuring money: the school's classrooms during recesses were his preferred source. He just had to be careful not to take money from too many schoolbags at once and, even though he had been suspected sometimes whenever the theft had been discovered in school, but nobody had ever been able to find the stolen money --it wasn't like they could check his underwear. The funniest part of it was that many teachers suspected Dudley, too, but knew how useless and unpleasant it would be to bring it up with the Dursleys, and many times didn't bother to report Harry either.

It was a good thing that this tactic worked so far, because, after all, there were only so many restaurants in the area, and with how much he ate, Harry would soon run out of places to go if he kept the other practice up too often.

The good part of these punishments, though, was that he wasn’t expected to do any chores, and consequentially could spend as much time as he wanted sleeping. Harry loved to sleep. Since he could remember, he had always had very interesting dreams. He couldn’t remember them in much detail, though they became easier to remember as he grew older. The dreams were a strange thing that happened to him —perhaps even stranger than his hair growing on its own, Dudley’s Gameboy catching fire when he was taunting Harry about how he would never let him play or appearing on the roof of the school, but luckily, contrary to those instances, no one knew about these dreams— and one he enjoyed immensely. They were thrilling, showing things he couldn’t believe his mind could come up with. Now, Harry was no idiot —it didn’t matter that his Aunt and Uncle didn’t want him to have better grades than Dudley and so his academic performance was terrible— but he was amazed his brain had created such a complex world.

Because, despite all the things he couldn’t remember once he woke up, he knew he dreamed about a complex world.

All the dreams seemed to be related, from the first one he could remember having.There were many recurring characters —the boy with the straw hat, the giant old man, the blond with the pineapple hairstyle— he could connect the events of some dreams to others, they seemed to be all placed in the same world and then, of course, there was _his_ character.

Because he was always the same person in these dreams, indifferently if in the dream he was ten or nineteen, there was always the freckled boy with dark hair. Now, Harry had black hair, and freckles that his Aunt stared at curiously from time to time, but his hair was much more of a rat’s nest than the one in the dream, and he wasn’t nearly as muscled as the kid, not even at age ten, despite all the chores he was forced to do and all the exercise he managed to fit in his free time —not that he could do much exercise while school was on, classes and chores took up almost all of his time then. And he had those stupid glasses.

Harry liked to think that, once he grew up he would be as tall and strong as that guy was. He would love to see Uncle Vernon try to get his hands on the seventeen years old man that had left the island in a small boat to go fulfil his dream.

If only he could remember that boy’s name... For some reason, despite how many times it was said throughout the dreams, it was one of the things he could never remember once he woke up.

Harry heard the front door slam closed, a signal that Dudley had left, and rolled on the small cot that acted as his bed. Mere moments later he was fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry could have slapped himself for letting his stupid cousin see the letter he had received. Not even seeing Uncle Vernon’s unhealthy purple face and Aunt Petunia almost fainting had been worth not knowing what it said. Especially because of those reactions. It had to be very good to warrant them. What had followed had only increased Harry’s desire to read the letter.

The letters had kept coming, more and more every time and in a stranger way as time went by, but unfortunately Harry hadn’t been able to get his hands on a single one. Not even fleeing had served to stop them, for the letters had followed them, as if they magically —and wouldn’t his relatives hate that thought, because they hated the notion of magic— knew where to find them. Him. Not only the place, but the _exact_ place.

Where he slept.

That was another reason Harry liked those letters: after they had first arrived, the Dursleys had panicked at the thought that someone knew where he slept and gave him Dudley’s second bedroom. Dudley hadn’t been happy, it had been great to witness one of his epic temper tantrums failing like that.

But now, amusement aside, things had gone a little too far. Harry liked the ocean, it reminded him of his dreams and how the boy in them had loved it, but being in a shack in the middle of the water during a storm was a little too much even for him.

Oh, and it was about to be his birthday.

Eleven years old, reached during a potentially deadly excursion to flee a horde of flying letters his relatives didn’t want him to read. He grinned. The boy would have loved it and that made Harry love it. He felt the boy was a part of himself, after all.

Mere minutes before his birthday, loud sounds, too loud to belong to the raging storm outside, began to be heard.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry spent over twenty minutes laughing so hard it was lucky for him Hagrid didn’t mind, because he wouldn’t have been able to stop.

That had been _great_.

Seeing his relatives so terrified, Dudley’s _tail_ , meeting Hagrid —who seemed really nice despite certain others’ reactions to him— and getting a cake had been a perfect birthday present. His first cake, of which nothing remained by now.

Oh, and he was a wizard.

Hagrid had been surprised when, after discovering how the Dursleys had tried to hide the truth from him, Harry hadn’t been either amazed or incredulous, instead taking it in stride. But, seriously, despite his relatives’ loud claims that such a thing as magic didn’t exist, he would have to be daft to not realize something was off with all the stuff that happened to him. Besides, he had spent his whole life dreaming about Devil Fruits, magic wasn’t so surprising after that.

There had been a downside to this night, of course. It had been a relief to know that his relatives had lied and his parents hadn’t died in a car crash, but the knowledge that a power-hungry madman had killed them hadn’t settled well in him. For some reason he couldn’t place, it brought a deep sense of hatred towards that Voldemort guy, and he regretted he had already killed him as a baby, because he would have liked to get his hands on him now.

Shaking his head to get rid of those dark thoughts, Harry laid back and attempted to sleep. It was a happy day now, not only because it was his birthday, but because he was a wizard and would be leaving the Dursleys’ house for the whole school year.

He idly wondered if he would have to come up with some creative way of acquiring money to be able to pay for his school supplies.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, no stealing was required for his shopping trip to Diagon Alley. He was loaded, as he soon discovered once Hagrid brought him to Gringotts, a magical bank. The goblin who accompanied them, Griphook, had directed a strange look at him when Harry very nearly salivated at the sight of the gold mounds in his vault. It was a treasure! And it could pay for a lot of food. But no, Harry only took a reasonable amount, deciding he would try to keep the money for important things —he had learned the value of saving when the freckled boy and Sabo had collected all that treasure, though in that case it had been for naught at the end— and left, trying to discover what Hagrid had collected from that other vault to no avail. At least the trips on the carts were fun. Harry had laughed the whole way, that action earning him strange looks from both Griphook and Hagrid.

That experience had raised his mood back to what it had been the night before, and he was glad for it. Before going to the bank they had had to pass through a pub to get to the magical shopping street —that had a lot of cool shops— and there had been an _incident_.

When Hagrid had told him he was famous the night before, Harry hadn’t been prepared for what it truly meant. It wasn’t just that he was famous, those people _worshipped him_. Like they would do to some kind of hero. Harry had already guessed his fame wouldn’t have anything to do with how the freckled boy, once he became a pirate, was so infamous, but that... He hadn’t liked it, it had made him feel extremely uncomfortable. He hoped that not everybody would react in that way to meeting him, but he didn’t put much faith into it.

Following with the shopping trip, after Gringotts —he had chuckled at the warning in the door and wondered what the goblins would think of his dreams— they had gone to get his uniform, and there Harry had met a posh blond kid he wasn’t looking forward to meeting again. At least he had learned some things, like Quidditch —Hagrid had later explained it was a popular sport, and Harry thought he would like to try it, even more for the flying part— or the fact that the school was divided into houses. If that boy was anything to go by, Harry doubted he would like being in Slytherin, but he might be wrong and the boy was not an example of how the people in that house were, who knew.

He had also got the impression that the magical world was as prejudiced as what wizards called the muggle world, both from the other boy’s comments about wizards coming from muggle families and Hagrid’s comments about Slytherins.

The visit to the book store was uneventful, and Harry browsed some spell books that caught his attention, but decided to wait to know a little of how to cast magic before buying anything. That Hagrid told him he couldn’t use magic outside of school had probably influenced him on that decision.

After that, he bought his cauldron and scales —and ogled the gold cauldron until Hagrid dragged him away, though he wouldn’t have spent money on something like that— and headed to the apothecary, a place that made Aunt Petunia’s excessive amount of cleaning supplies smell like heaven.

The ingredients sold there, however, were interesting. He spent his time there browsing the inventory, and through that discovered that animals he thought mythical, such as unicorns, were real. He wondered if phoenixes existed, too.

On their way to the wand shop, Hagrid said he would buy him a birthday present. Harry knew he should have acted modest, assuring the man it wasn’t necessary, but instead he launched himself at the supposed giant —that looked short in comparison to many people Harry had dreamed of, like Pops— thanking him profusely. He didn’t care what the present would be, because it would be his first real present, and that made it great.

His present turned out to be an owl, something Hagrid thought every boy wanted to have and that would be useful, as owls were used to send letters in the wizarding world.

Much to the man’s horror, however, Harry named his new owl Stefan, unaware at the time that said owl was female, and refused to listen to Hagrid’s stammered suggestion that he could wait and get a good name from his history textbook or something. The owl was white, and Harry remembered Whitebeard having a white dog with his same moustache. Harry might not be able to get the owl to grow a moustache, but she was white and so he had named her Stefan. He had never been good at telling the gender of an animal, and Hagrid had been too gobsmacked by the name —for an owl!—to notice either.

The visit to the wand shop was plain strange and somewhat unnerving. Ollivander, the wand maker, made Harry nervous, but he also liked the visit. Not the part where his new wand was the brother of Voldemort’s wand, that fact disturbed him more than anything else, but his wand’s core was a _phoenix feather_. Phoenixes were real, and he now owned the proof of it. He barely resisted the urge to ask if they were blue.

Also, Ollivander had said Harry would do great things. He had no intention of turning into a second Voldemort or anything like that, related wands or not, but he hoped that meant he would live many adventures.

That would be great.

Finally they went to eat at the Leaky Cauldron, and Harry did his best to ignore the stares directed his way, pleased when people finally averted their eyes. It might have had something to do with the way he wolfed down all the food he had ordered —after all, the Dursleys hadn’t taught him any manners, and all he knew was from things he had seen in his dreams and pirates weren’t exactly famous for their manners— but he didn’t care as long as they stopped watching his every move.

 

* * *

 

 

His last month at the Dursleys’ was great. Dudley was terrified of him, which meant he stayed clear of him and didn’t try anything, while his Aunt and Uncle were both scared and furious, and had taken to ignoring him. There had been no chores and no going back to the cupboard, which meant Harry had had the whole month for himself.

The dreams had continued: he had seen the freckled boy play and train with Sabo and Luffy, set sail to pursue his dreams, meet some of his first crewmembers, how he had tried to kill Whitebeard one of so many times, the party the crew threw when he finally agreed to join them... This month’s dreams had been all good, with none of the sad moments of the boy’s life that Harry had dreamt of in the past. The time he had learned why Sabo had disappeared at some point when the boy was ten, Harry had been eight, and had felt glad about being locked in his cupboard at the moment, because he had spent the whole day crying.

Now that he knew magic was real, Harry had tried to figure out if those dreams had any meaning besides that, dreams, but he hadn’t been able to come up with anything that didn’t sound ridiculous and his textbooks —that he had browsed mostly to see what kind of magic he would be learning— hadn’t helped at all. The only textbook he had read to some extent had been the one about magical creatures, and of it he had mostly browsed what types of creatures existed and practically memorized the section about phoenixes.

For the most part, though, Harry spent his time outside, running around, climbing trees, using the park’s slide and swings in ways that they weren’t meant to be used, and anything else that came to mind.

When September 1st arrived, Harry was so excited he would have spent the whole night before jumping around if it wasn’t because he knew the Dursleys would kill him. Or not take him to King’s Cross, which would be worse.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had barely resisted from punching Uncle Vernon for his obvious mocking attitude since he heard the platform’s name.

The only thing that made him control himself was that he knew it had to be something magical, and so he headed for platforms nine and ten and began to search for anyone who looked magical. He had noticed at Diagon Alley how different their clothes were.

It didn’t take long.

His attention was drawn to a large group of redheads that walked close to him, and he caught the word ‘muggle’ in what the woman with them, obviously the mother, was saying.

Harry stood back to look at what they did and watched, fascinated, as first the boy that had to be the oldest —and there were four boys and a girl, a lot of kids for a family— disappeared through the wall separating platforms nine and ten, followed by two identical, slightly younger boys.

Convinced that it had to be what he had been looking for, he approached the woman.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Hello, dear,” she said, “First year at Hogwarts, right? Ron is also new.” She pointed to the last of her sons, redheaded like all the others, he was a gangly boy, taller than Harry and with freckles. Harry grinned at him in greeting.

“Yeah. Is that the platform?” He asked, signalling to the wall with his head. The woman smiled at him.

“Yes. You just have to walk up to it to cross to platform 9¾. Why don’t you go before Ron?”

Harry grinned at her in thanks, turned to push his trolley forward and, at the last moment before moving, he decided to run at it instead of walking. When he passed through the wall, as if it hadn’t even been there, he had taken so much impulse that it was a miracle he managed to stop himself before he ran a woman over. The woman glared at him and walked away.

In this new platform, where almost everybody he could see was wearing wizards’ robes instead of muggle clothes, was a huge, bright red steam train. He grinned.

Ignoring the conversations around, the families parting for the school year and the friends meeting again after the summer, Harry pushed his trolley forward until he found a compartment that wasn’t already full with students. He stopped in front of one almost at the end of the train, took Stefan’s cage —he had debated on calling her Stefanie after discovering his mistake but had finally decided against it— and carried it into the compartment before coming back to take his trunk. He grinned when he could lift it, having noticed how the other kids that looked his age seemed to need help, and dropped it onto the floor with a heavy sigh once it was inside. He pushed it into a corner, moved Stefan’s cage to one of the seats and he himself sat down next to it.

Through the open door, Harry watched with amusement the family of redheads saying goodbye to their mother. Apparently, the older one was a prefect, whatever that was, and the twins were poking fun at him. They sounded amusing, maybe he could become friends with them later. When the mother started to warn them about everything she didn’t want to hear they had done, Harry choked in an attempt not to laugh and decided he would like those two.

The train whistled and the boys hurried to climb in. Harry lost himself in the sight of the station growing smaller and smaller, and then the train turned and he was looking at the houses passing at great speed by the window.

He turned when the door to his compartment opened, and saw the younger red haired boy, Ron, standing there awkwardly.

“Is someone sitting here? All other compartments are full.”

Harry shook his head and Ron came in, sitting down in the opposite seat. They stayed silent for a moment until the twin brothers came in to tell their younger brother they would go somewhere else.

Then something that Harry would soon grow to hate happened. One of them noticed his scar when he turned to introduce himself. Fred. Fred and George Weasley. At least they hadn’t fawned over him as much as the people in the Leaky Cauldron.

When the two older boys left, Harry was left with an even more awkward Ron who now seemed fascinated by him, asking incomplete questions about his scar. When Harry told him he only remembered a green light, they lapsed into silence. Harry, however, wasn’t about to waste his chance to discover some more about the wizarding world before school started, and so decided to ask Ron Weasley about it. The conversation soon turned to Ron’s family. Harry was fascinated to hear what a wizarding family was like. He soon learned, though Ron tried not to say it, that they didn’t have much money and Ron was bitter about not having anything new.

Harry, up until his visit to Diagon Alley, had never had anything new either, and he could sympathize. He hated Dudley’s cast-offs.

Over an hour into the conversation, a cart full of food came by their compartment. Ron refused to buy anything but Harry, both with his usual hunger and curiosity for magical food, bought some of everything, and spent the following time eating with Ron. He even got one of Ron’s sandwiches in exchange for some sweets. Harry would have given them to him either way, but he wasn’t stupid enough to refuse free food.

The magical food was very interesting —Harry was beginning to suspect he could find almost anything in this world if he looked hard enough— and he even got his first look at Hogwarts’ headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, in the form of the card from a chocolate frog.

He also met a bossy girl by the name of Hermione Granger who was looking for a boy’s toad —the boy had been over asking if they had seen it, too— and, though Ron didn’t like her much, Harry thought she didn’t necessarily have to be bad. Alright, he hadn’t liked her tirade about her having read everything about him, but she had just looked like an extremely nervous girl who had tried to learn as much as possible about this new world that had revealed itself to her.

If Harry cared about fitting in, he would probably have done something similar. Not spouting out all the information when it wasn’t needed, but learned it nonetheless.

Their conversation went back to Ron’s family and the wizarding world in general until they were interrupted again. This time by the blond kid from the clothes store and this time, contrary to what had happened with Hermione, Harry did _not_ like him. At all. He hated that people tried to tell him what he could and couldn’t do, he hated prejudiced people —he understood most people, Harry himself included, were somewhat prejudiced, but this brat had showed in two minutes his life was reigned by his prejudices— and he didn’t like cowards. Draco Malfoy was every one of those things wrapped in a pale, posh package, as proved when he squealed and ran away because Ron’s _rat_ attacked him.

Incidentally, that attack was the reason why Harry didn’t punch him.

Soon after, they changed into their school uniforms and the train arrived at its destination. There was Hagrid, waiting for the first years, and they were soon divided in groups of four to climb into small boats —Harry grinned at being on the water— to sail to Hogwarts.

When his eyes fell on the beautiful castle, Harry’s grin widened until it almost hurt his cheeks. The place, that looked magnificent, screamed excitement and adventure.

He couldn’t wait to be there.

 

* * *

 

 

There had been a lot of speculation, fear and nerves about the selection —not to mention the ghosts that had come to greet them, and that had interested Harry much more—and Harry felt glad when the doors to the Great Hall finally opened and they entered following Professor McGonagall, who had given them a quick overview of the school’s structure.

The Great Hall was magnificent, there were four long tables filled with students, a fifth one at the front where the staff sat. It was illuminated by thousands of floating candles and the high ceiling showed the sky outside. He heard Hermione Granger say it was enchanted.

The professor placed a stool on the floor and on top of it a worn pointy hat. Harry jumped when the hat moved and began to sing. He hadn’t expected _that_.

When the song was over, Professor McGonagall began to call the students, and not even when it became clear they only had to put the hat on to be sorted did they calm. Most looked as if they were walking to their execution.

Harry soon grew tired of watching frightened students sitting there and scurrying off to their tables as soon as the hat yelled their house, and he let his eyes roam over the hall, more precisely over the head table, the one that was in front of the first years.

His eyes moved over every face, stopping halfway through them as they fell on a wizened man he recognized as Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s eyes _twinkled_ , and he smiled at Harry when he noticed him looking at him. Harry looked away to continue his evaluation of the professors when his eyes fell on the top of the high chair where the headmaster was sitting.

There, standing on the seat and eyes looking straight at him was a bird. A magnificent bird of red feathers that seemed to glow and that Harry recognized, remembering it from his book on magical animals, as a phoenix. He swallowed.

“Potter, Harry!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry about changing Hedwig's name. In case someone doesn't know, Oda said in a SBS that Whitebeard had a dog called Stefan with his same moustache (it was a joke, but I couldn't resist.)
> 
> Also, I love feedback, so I'd really appreciate it if you left a review. Any questions or ideas you might have about the evolution of this story are more than welcome, I've already developed some plot points thanks to the suggestions of readers, and there is so much in the Harry Potter universe that it's very likely I've forgotten things while plotting. That's why I write while re-reading the books, really.


	2. The mythical bird

“Potter, Harry!”

Harry snapped back to attention when his name was heard throughout the Great Hall, and he walked forward. Contrary to his future classmates, however, he made it a point not to hurry toward the hat. It wasn’t as if he was walking up to his execution.

That, however, gave him plenty of time to hear the whispers that surged around him.

“ _Potter_ , did she say?”

“ _That_ Harry Potter?”

Yes, Harry was beginning to really hate those reactions.

He sat down on the stool, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head. It was so big that it covered his eyes.

 “ _Hmm_." Harry almost jumped in place when he heard that voice. “W _hat an interesting mind you have here. I hadn’t had such a complicated case in a very long time. Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes_ _,_ _and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting… So where shall I put you?_ ”

Harry, remembering that Malfoy boy and his two thugs had gone to Slytherin, began to repeat in his head that he didn’t want to go there, as he didn’t feel like dealing with them in a daily basis.

“ _Not Slytherin, eh?_ ” said what had to be the hat. Though, how a hat could speak, Harry didn’t know. Devil Fruit, perhaps? “ _No, not a Devil Fruit. I hadn’t heard that term in many years. You are certainly a curious case. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Slytherin?_ ” Harry conjured up a made up image of the freckled boy burning the hat. “ _I’ll take that as a no. It’s a pity, you could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that.” He repeated the thought, adding in a furious ‘NO’ for good measure. “No? Well, if you’re sur_ _e..._ _better be GRYFFINDOR!_ ”

A loud, almost deafening cheer burst from said table after the hat yelled the House’s name, and Harry took the hat off, handed it to the professor, who for some reason smiled at him, and headed in the direction of his new table. He shook the hand of the oldest redhead —his name was Percy?— and sat down, ignoring all the ruckus around him that apparently centred on having _Harry Potter_ in their house, only paying attention when the ghost patted his arm, and that was more due to the shiver the action sent through his body than anything else.

Once he was sitting down, the cheers still going around in the table, Harry looked back up at the Head Table, eyes going to fall on the phoenix. He blinked. Was the bird _clapping_ with its wings?

His attention went back to the sorting when he heard Ron’s name, and Harry smiled and joined the cheers when his new friend was sent to Gryffindor just like him.

After him, there was only one more student left, then the Headmaster stood up and gave a short speech that had Harry wondering if his brain was missing something. He rapidly discarded it from his thoughts, however, when all sorts of delicious-looking foods materialized on the table out of nowhere.

It was possible that some of his new classmates tried to talk to him, or maybe they didn’t, Harry couldn’t tell because he was too busy stuffing his face with food. He was so absorbed in the novelty of being able to eat as much as he wanted without having to keep an eye out to make sure his escape route was open that he didn’t notice the strange looks his table manners —more precisely his lack of them— garnered him, and barely spared a glance when the House’s ghost —whose name he would later learn was Nearly Headless Nick— pulled his head to the side to show the students how he wasn’t completely headless.

When the food on the table was replaced by desserts, Harry was happy to indulge in them, but when the desserts, too, disappeared, he crossed his arms and looked sulkily up at the Head Table when the headmaster rose to speak. His eyes moved to look behind the man’s shoulder, where the bird still stood —and Harry had the strange feeling that it was looking at him— and he only half-listened to the old man.

A forbidden forest —he made a mental note to sneak out at some point—apparently it was forbidden to use magic in the corridors and Harry seriously doubted anyone followed that rule, something about Quidditch he didn’t care about because he couldn’t play this year, and a corridor where anyone who entered would die. Now _that_ got his attention, and his eyes moved back to the headmaster’s face. Behind the man, he saw the bird cock its head to the side.

And then they got to sing. Without following a melody. At least they got the lyrics. Harry decided to use one from his dreams, the one from a song titled _Bink’s Sake_ that he really liked.

 

* * *

 

 

_“If I didn’t chase after you, then I’d be alone, and being alone hurts worse than pain!!”_

 

* * *

 

 

School started off both great and annoying. It was great because he was learning how to do magic, and it was annoying because the stupid stares, whispers and fascinated eyes followed him everywhere. Harry had once directed a rude gesture he had seen mostly in his dreams to a clutter of gossiping students that were pointing at him, a prefect had seen him and docked five points. Harry directed then the gesture at the idiot’s back.

In regards to classes, he had very mixed opinions. He liked Transfiguration, it sounded like a very useful subject —and had a lot of fun potential— and Professor McGonagall, though stern, was cool. She could turn into a cat. For a moment Harry had thought of asking if she was a Devil Fruit user, because ever since the hat pretty much confirmed they really existed he had been obsessed with the topic, but he soon learned she was an Animagus. That wasn’t as cool as a Devil Fruit, but was still cool.

Astronomy, when he managed to stay awake, was a nice class. Not because he had to learn the names of the stars and how the planets moved, Harry doubted he would do that too well, but because looking at the night sky brought a peaceful feeling to his chest he rather liked. Much to his classmates’ amusement, only during the first class he had managed to lose himself to the feeling twice, and had been admonished by the professor for not paying attention.

Then there was Herbology.

That was a puzzling subject. For some reason neither he nor Professor Sprout had been able to discover, the plants didn’t like him. If they could, they moved away from him, and there had been this one flower in the first class, when the professor had showed them the greenhouses, that had tried to spray him with poison. He had decided to be extra careful, and the professor had lent him special glasses to protect his eyes until he could get his own pair.

According to the whole student population, History of Magic was the most boring class. Harry quite liked it, not because he was interested on the subject or actually able to stay awake as Professor Binns droned out the facts, but precisely because he could sleep with the sure knowledge that Binns wouldn’t notice. He had decided to carry a pillow there instead of his history book until he learned how to transfigure something small that wouldn’t take up space in his book bag into a pillow.

Charms was also an interesting, potentially useful subject, and Harry liked the tiny, energetic Professor Flitwick, even if the man had reacted to saying his name —it had helped to disperse his annoyance that the professor fell right after saying it— and he also liked that it was a mostly practical class.

Harry had been looking forward to Defence Against the Dark Arts, as both the title and the book were very promising, but one lesson with the stammering mess that was Professor Quirrell had convinced him that the class wouldn’t be nearly as interesting as he had expected it to be. And the strong smell of garlic in the classroom made him hungry. Ron had joked that the noises Harry’s stomach had begun to make halfway through the class had the professor’s stammer worsen even more.

When Friday came, they had their first Potions class. It required a great deal of self control, something Harry only possessed as a consequence of having lived with the Dursleys, not to punch the professor. And at first Snape had sounded interesting with that speech of his, despite his comment about Harry when he took the roll call. Apparently, however, the man couldn’t stand Harry for some reason, as he had picked on him from the beginning —so what if he hadn’t studied before classes started? No one except Hermione Granger had— and things had just become worse as the class advanced, the professor having them pair up to make a potion to cure boils. He stalked around the class, intimidating most of the students and making them nervous.

Then Harry and Ron’s potion exploded.

That had been it. Ron had received some minor burns, and Snape had ordered Hermione —who tried to come out in their defence when Snape descended on them like a hawk with its prey— to take Ron to the Hospital Wing, while he had a field day at Harry’s expense and assigned him detention with Filch, the school's caretaker. Harry was somewhat glad Snape wouldn’t take care of the detention himself.

Right when Snape snapped at the class for staring at them instead of working, Neville Longbottom's potion began to release a smoke that wasn’t supposed to be there and he, too, had to be taken to the Hospital Wing.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry came back from Hagrid’s hut in a much better mood that he had gone. Stefan had brought him Hagrid’s invitation that morning at breakfast, and at first Ron was supposed to come but the medi-witch, Madam Pomfrey, had refused to let him out of the Hospital Wing so soon. Harry had been in a very bad mood after Potions, but the time with Hagrid —and the cakes that were a little hard but pretty good— had been good for him.

They had talked about Hogwarts, Harry’s classes —and he was _sure_ Hagrid knew why Snape acted like that with him— and Harry had seen a newspaper article about a break-in at Gringotts. The day they had gone there. He probably wouldn’t have thought much of it if Hagrid hadn’t refused to speak about the topic. Now Harry suspected it had been the vault Hagrid had picked up something from.

Harry took his time to walk back to the castle, nibbling on one of Hagrid’s cakes as he walked around half an hour before dinner started. He looked around at the extensive land that was Hogwarts’ grounds, and decided he quite liked it. Since school started, Harry had been distracted with classes and all the magic around him, but being out here alone, the sun setting on the sky and the wind blowing gently, he thought he should come out more often, just to walk and think and be outside. He could visit the lake they had crossed to come the first night, for example. He liked the water.

Hearing a soft flapping noise, Harry turned his head and was surprised to see the phoenix from the welcome feast flying in his direction. He stopped walking, and soon enough the bird was suspended, wings beating, before him. It poked Harry’s forehead with its beak.

“Ow!” he complained, taking a hand where the beak had touched him not so gently. He looked at the bird, still on the air before him with its head cocked. Harry thought its eyes looked lazy, not the sharp gaze from the bird picture he had seen in his book. “You’re a phoenix?” he asked, curious for a confirmation of his theory, and, much to his surprise, the bird moved its head up and down. Nodding.

It was strange, Harry thought. From the few things he had learned about birds at his Muggle school, he knew they were supposed to move their heads in jerky, fast movements —or so he had been told— but this one had moved its head slowly. He shrugged and resumed his slow walking, the phoenix flying at a slow pace next to him.

“Were you watching me at the welcome feast?” Another nod. “Do you live around here?” A third nod. Harry wondered if the phoenix could really understand him or if it was only doing that every time he talked. He decided to check it. “Are you tasty? Can I have a taste?” Before he realized it, the phoenix had ascended slightly and a wing swat him on the head. Hard. “Ow.”

So it did understand him.

Taking advantage of having an audience that couldn’t rat him out —or at least he was pretty sure it couldn’t—Harry began to talk about his week, not bothering to check the complaints, most of them colourful comments about the last professor he had met, as he had done during his visits with Hagrid.

Throughout his monologue of his first few days of class, the phoenix nodded, shook its head and even patted his back — _really_ , with one of its wings— when Harry morosely spoke about his detention and how he really hadn’t done anything wrong while making the potion.

When they reached the front door, Harry turned to the phoenix, unsure of what to do, and was surprised when it ruffled his hair with a wing.

“I’ll see you another day, I guess,” he said, unsure, and the phoenix nodded before flying higher and disappearing from sight.

Harry followed it with his eyes, fascinated at how different the phoenix was from any animal he had even encountered, even that nice serpent at the zoo back on Dudley’s birthday.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Why do you guys call him ‘Pops’?”_

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, the beautiful afternoon of the first Saturday of the school year, while everybody enjoyed themselves outside, Harry found himself stuck in one of the bathrooms of the fifth floor, a bucket of water next to one wall and a toothbrush in hand courtesy of Argus Filch, the ugly, sour and very much annoying caretaker of the school. Filch had left him here, saying he would come check on him from time to time and Harry wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he was done, he had threatened Harry with hanging him from his toes with chains in the dungeons if he even _suspected_ the use of magic and left.

Muttering under his breath —he had thought the humiliating chores would be over now that he wasn’t at the Dursleys’ anymore— he scrubbed viciously at the inside of one of the toilets.

He heard the soft flapping of wings and turned, not as surprised as he probably should have been, to find the phoenix entering through the window and landing on one of the sinks lining the wall opposite the toilet stalls.

“Hey," Harry greeted, half tempted to tell the phoenix to move from there or it would get dirty, but shrugging as he remembered he would have to clean it either way when he started working on the sinks.

The phoenix turned its head to the side and let out a low trill Harry interpreted as a greeting.

“Sorry about the mess, I’m stuck in detention. I told you yesterday, didn’t I? I think Snape told Filch to be extra nasty, because this is something I’d expect from the Dursleys.”

The phoenix cocked its head to the side, and Harry thought it was asking him to elaborate. Maybe it wasn’t, and it was simply Harry making things up because he was bored out of his mind, but either way he explained, and the phoenix did nothing to stop him.

“The Dursleys are the people I live with. They’re a foul lot and hate me. They’re my relatives and all, but I don’t consider them family, because they don’t act at all like a family should, always insulting me and giving me chores. That’s not a family. A family is, well... Pops and the others, I guess.”

He was startled when the phoenix snapped its wings open and grew very still. Harry thought its eyes had opened completely, opposite to their strange half-lidded state from both yesterday and moments ago.

“You want to know who are Pops and the others?” Slowly, the phoenix nodded. Harry smiled. “Since I was a little kid, since I can remember, really, I’ve had these strange dreams. They’re about a boy that’s really cool, and his life. He grew up in a forest, raised by some bandits that weren’t really bad people despite their profession, and he met this other kid when he was five, and later another and the three of them became brothers and they wanted to be pirates, but the first of his two brothers died one day and the other two were left alone. When he turned seventeen, the kid, or boy now I guess, set sail, found a good crew and became infamous. He decided to go kill the strongest man in the world, but lost and, after trying to kill him for a long time, decided to join the crew. That’s Pops, the strongest man in the world. He made a lot of friends there and found a new family, because in that crew they were all a family.”

The phoenix, that had been staring at him all the time, jumped from its post, and it glided down to land next to him on the floor and chirped at him. Harry placed a hand on its head and caressed softly. The phoenix was big enough that it reached up to Harry’s chest in his kneeling position.

“There’s some stuff I don’t remember when I wake up, you know? Like the boy’s name, it doesn’t matter how hard I try. And the oldest I’ve ever seen him was twenty. Do you think something happened to him?”

Another chirp and the phoenix settled against Harry’s leg, curled into itself and placed its small head on his leg. Harry attempted to move it to go back to complete his detention, but the phoenix didn’t budge —it must be strong, because Harry used all his strength as he asked it to move and didn’t manage to push it even an inch, and didn’t seem to weigh that much— so he shrugged and bent as best as he could to continue the tedious task of cleaning the bathroom. He wouldn’t be surprised if it took him all afternoon with that ridiculous toothbrush.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was ecstatic at the thought of finally receiving flying lessons. He listened to his classmates’ stories about flying, hoping to learn a little of what he had to do, but most of those stories were outlandish ‘adventures’ that involved some flying Muggle artefact, and finally Harry decided he would have to wait for the lesson. He was nervous, though not as much as he was eager, and he wasn’t the only one. Neville Longbottom was scared, as his grandmother had never allowed him to ride a broom before, and Hermione Granger was positively terrified.

That morning, excitement and nerves were mixed for the first year students, mostly depending on who you looked at. Their class was, to general disappointment, shared with the Slytherins, and Harry wasn’t happy that he would have to practice his self-control once more. Draco Malfoy had been a thorn in his side since school began and, though Harry could easily ignore most of his comments, the annoying brat sometimes managed to rile him up. He had to remember Dudley, and how he had always resisted from punching him, to stay calm. Otherwise, he would have been delighted to take a page off the freckled boy’s book when he was ten and attack him with a pipe.

The class, of course, couldn’t go without trouble. Harry did well, managing to do everything Professor Hooch told them easily, but as soon as they were on their brooms Neville’s nerves got the better of him, he shoot out accidentally and, after what probably was the greatest fright of his life, he fell and broke his wrist. The professor took him to the Hospital Wing, for some reason —not that Harry minded— leaving them with the brooms.

Malfoy wasted no time before showing how much of a spoiled idiot he was, and Harry would have ignored him if it wasn’t because he took the object —he hadn’t paid attention to what it was, busy as he had been eating breakfast— that Neville’s grandmother had sent him that morning. Harry liked Neville, he was a nice guy, and so he intervened to try to get it back.

Harry and Malfoy ended up in the sky and Malfoy, coward as he was, threw the object away. Harry shared many traits with the freckled boy from his dreams, and one of them was that he did not like to back off —though his upbringing had taught him to do it from time to time— so he soared right after it. Flying, he decided, was a really nice feeling.

Harry saved the little ball from being destroyed by a hair’s breath, but then McGonagall appeared, startling them all.

Oh, Harry was going to enjoy it when Malfoy not only saw he hadn’t been expelled, but he had managed to do what Malfoy had been loudly complaining he couldn’t do: Harry was allowed to join the Quidditch team.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ow! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Harry exclaimed, trying to cover his face with his arms to block the blows from the phoenix’s deceptively strong wings.

He had just left the Quidditch pitch, where Oliver Wood —the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team— had given him a quick course in Quidditch rules after McGonagall introduced them and told Wood why Harry should join the team, and the phoenix had descended on him, attacking Harry viciously with the wings.

It didn’t matter that the phoenix couldn’t speak, the message was as clear as day: it had seen Harry’s stunt at the flying class and hadn’t liked it.

“Oh, come on, nothing happened!” he exclaimed, earning another swat at the head, but at least after that the phoenix stopped its assault. “Are you stalking me or what?”

He received a very convincing glare. Harry sighed and raised a hand to pat the phoenix’s head.

“Sorry. I promise next time I do something stupid I’ll have had some training first.”

The phoenix’s glare at those words made it clear it didn’t approve, but, as if it knew Harry wouldn’t be swayed away from entering the Quidditch team, it rose a little higher and flew next to him all the way to the castle.

Harry spent the whole walk talking excitedly about everything Wood had explained to him about Quidditch.

 

* * *

 

 

Backing off from a fight, unfortunately, wasn’t a common occurrence in Harry’s life. He had been stupid enough to accept Malfoy’s challenge for a duel, when he knew Malfoy was too cowardly to actually show up, ignoring Hermione Granger’s warnings not to go. Hell, he had been rude to her even, annoyed by her overbearing bossy attitude. But she had been right.

She had been forced to accompany them when she had tried to stop them and had found herself stranded outside the common room, along with Neville Longbottom —who apparently hadn’t been able to enter the common room because he had forgotten the password— and of course Harry’s feeling about Malfoy had been true and Malfoy had set Filch on them.

What Harry hadn’t expected was to stumble upon a three headed dog as they fled from Filch —and did Harry hate fleeing, but he had been an idiot once today already. A dog that, according to Hermione, guarded a trapdoor.

_Interesting. This needs some investigation._

And Harry was sure the investigation would reveal that whatever Hagrid had taken out of the Gringotts’ vault that day would be under that trapdoor.

—

“Ow, ow, ow!” Harry covered himself with his book bag as the phoenix once again hit him with its wings after he told it about what had happened the previous night. “Enough!”

Harry jumped back and the phoenix, luckily, didn’t follow. It glared at him, though.

“I’ll stop telling you stuff if you’re going to react like that every time!”

The phoenix’s eyes turned sad all of a sudden, and it trilled morosely. Harry glared at it but, at the second trill, he relented and sighed. _Manipulative—_

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”


	3. Friends here and there

After being scolded by the phoenix, as stupid as that sounded, Harry had decided it would be prudent not to mention the brand new broomstick he had received that morning, lest the bossy phoenix decided he deserved another assault to be reminded he shouldn’t pull any stupid stunts with it. Harry doubted he wouldn’t do it —he _was_ going to play Quidditch, and as a Seeker no less— but it felt strangely nice to have someone worrying about his wellbeing for a change. Or something. Whatever, the feeling was there all the same.

Instead, Harry decided to find a good sitting place under a tree and tell the phoenix some more about his dreams. He had never spoken about them to anybody —not even to Ron, despite how good friends they were becoming— and it was nice to talk about them, even if the phoenix couldn’t answer him. It seemed to like the stories, anyway, as it hopped on Harry’s lap —despite his half-hearted complaints about it— and made the occasional sound to let him know it was paying attention.

 

* * *

 

 

Halloween came and Harry wasn’t sure how he felt. There was a festive atmosphere in the castle, and most of the students were cheerful and eager for the night —and the feast they would have then— to arrive, and Harry wanted to join the mood, which he did most of the time. But now and then he remembered that ten years ago today Lord Voldemort had murdered his parents, and he felt guilty for being in such high spirits, his mood souring until he was reminded of what awaited ahead.

Then, there was the incident after Charms’ class. Harry hadn’t, up until now, given much thought to Ron’s dislike of Hermione Granger —after all he didn’t exactly like the girl, either— but today his friend had been excessively cruel, even if he hadn’t said anything to her face. Still, Hermione had heard his comment, and left in tears, not to be seen for the remainder of the classes nor the feast. Had Ron said it directly to Hermione —that it was no wonder no one could stand her— then Harry would have got mad at him, but as things were he simply made it clear he hadn’t liked that comment much. Hermione might be annoying, but she had good intentions and hadn’t done anything that hurt them.

When Harry noticed Hermione wasn’t at the feast that night, he thought about talking to her in the morning, but couldn’t come up with anything to say. What could he tell her? ‘I’m sorry about what Ron said, but it is true no one can stand you because you’re too bossy’? Yeah, sure, that would help her a lot.

Soon, Harry’s attention was completely pulled away from Hermione by all the delicious food available. That was until Professor Quirrell barged into the Great Hall yelling that there was a troll in the dungeons.

Then he fainted.

_What a good DADA professor._

Chaos broke and, when it was finally controlled by Dumbledore, they were ordered to go to their dormitories. Harry had all the intention to follow Percy —the prefect accompanying the first years— there, he really did, but then he remembered not everybody had attended the feast.

“Ron,” he pulled at his friend’s robe to catch his attention over all the noise, “Hermione didn’t come to the feast.”

“Oh, alright,” Ron said, understanding what Harry meant. “But Percy better not see us.”

Thinking fast, Harry realized that if Hermione had been crying she would have run to the closest girls’ bathroom to the Charms classroom.

Slipping away from the crowd was ridiculously easy —weren’t they supposed to be making sure no one did that?— but they had to hide when Percy, or so Ron thought, approached. It happened to be Snape, who wasn’t heading to the dungeons like the rest of the professors.

Ignoring that in light of a much more pressing matter, they continued on their way as soon as the path was clear.

The plan was simple: find Hermione and take her to the common room where everyone else was headed. It would have been easy if it wasn’t because the troll, that was supposed to be in the dungeons, was there. They saw it advancing through the hallway and then enter a room, so they decided to lock it there. The key was in the keyhole, after all.

The plan worked brilliantly, or it would have if it wasn’t because the room in question happened to be the girls’ bathroom and Hermione was inside.

That was how they found themselves charging into a room with a troll inside to try to get Hermione away from it. And, as stupid as people said trolls were, it was no easy task.

The troll, on its way to reach a cowering Hermione, was demolishing anything in its path, even the solid sinks, and Harry had an idea. They had to distract it, of course, or they couldn’t reach Hermione, and the best way to do it would be to draw it was far away from her as possible.

“Get ready to get to Hermione,” Harry told Ron and, when his friend nodded, he rushed forward, took a broken tap and threw it with all his strength at the troll, yelling, “Look behind you, you idiot!”

In the split second it took the troll to process what had happened and turn around, Harry had collected various other broken parts of the bathroom in his arms and, as soon as the troll had his attention on him, threw a broken pipe right between its beady eyes.

Now, from any average eleven year old, that impact wouldn’t have been hard enough for that thing to even notice it if it hadn’t seen it, but Harry was strong enough that the hit, though it clearly didn’t hurt, seemed to have angered the troll enough to forget his previous prey and charge after Harry.

He backed away through the door, the troll following with a roar, and Harry threw another broken pipe at its head, this time hitting the troll on its open mouth. He had to scurry back, yelping, when the troll raised the club it carried and hit, hard, the place where Harry had just been.

He saw the other two exiting the bathroom, Ron helping a shocked and terrified Hermione to move.

“Think of something!” Harry yelled, one arm full of his improvised weapons while with the other hand he threw another random object at the troll to keep its attention.

Things didn’t look good, he was no monstrously strong freckled boy who could take on a lion with a pipe, and he would soon run out of ammunition to throw at the troll.

His next projectile embedded itself into one of the troll’s eyes, and Harry smirked triumphantly when this time it howled in pain, raising both hands to try to pull the painful object from its eye.

The club fell uselessly to the floor.

Harry heard Ron and Hermione say something, but his attention was solely centred on the troll, adrenaline pumping through his body, and he couldn’t make out the words. His next projectile, a piece of broken porcelain from a sink, hit one of the troll’s wrists.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

Harry was startled by Ron’s yell, and he watched, stopping for a moment his assault, as the troll’s club rose high into the air, high enough to hover way over the troll’s head, and then it fell, impacting with a loud crack onto its owner’s head.

The troll fell to the floor, an ever louder bang this time, and didn’t move.

Harry threw another piece of broken pipe at it to be sure it really wasn’t moving before cautiously stepping around the fallen body. He hurried to where Ron and Hermione stood, both looking with stunned fascination at the fallen troll.

“Is it... dead?” Hermione asked hesitantly.

Harry looked at the troll. He doubted a being like this could be killed so easily, and he said so.

Then, a small contingent of professors came running, and they stopped at the sight before them.

The result of that encounter wasn’t what Harry had expected upon seeing the adults. Alright, so Quirrell acting as if he was about to faint at the sight of the troll and sitting down wasn’t all that surprising considering previous events —and that useless moron was supposed to teach them how to defend themselves?— nor was the angry reaction of both professors McGonagall and Snape, but what happened afterwards was. Hermione lied. Hermione Granger lied to her teachers, placing the blame on herself when she was the only one who wasn’t at fault in the whole incident, and she didn’t change her story even when she was scolded by McGonagall or had points deducted.

And McGonagall even congratulated Harry and Ron.

Snape didn’t seem to buy the story, though, but that didn’t matter, because with McGonagall there it wasn’t his job to punish them.

After the troll incident, Ron and Harry had silently agreed that they liked Hermione, and when they arrived at the common room she must have decided that she liked them, too, because she thanked them and brought food for the three of them from one of the tables where part of the Halloween feast food had been moved to. They sat together to eat and talk.

Ron apologized for being mean to her, Hermione apologized for being so bossy and trying to correct him all the time —though she made it clear she probably wouldn’t stop, just try to be nicer about it— and Harry apologized, much to the other two’s confusion, for not having done anything. He explained he hadn’t liked much neither of their attitudes but hadn’t done anything about it, and the other two rolled their eyes at him and told him to shut up.

 

* * *

 

 

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!” was the first think Harry said —not squealed, mind you— when he saw the phoenix the next afternoon, at what had now become their usual meeting place in the grounds even now when it was much colder.

He wouldn’t put it past the phoenix to somehow know what had transpired the previous night, and it sure did, because it fixed him with a hard, reproachful glare, but it didn’t swat him right away, which Harry took for its agreement to hear him out first.

Harry explained his story, and was finally let out with only a shake of the phoenix’s head and having his hair ruffled. He was pretty sure that soft movement of the phoenix’s wing over his head had been that, even if the concept of a bird ruffling someone’s hair might sound stupid.

“I was kind of worried, you know? It was dumb luck that we got out of there uninjured, but I really couldn’t have defeated that thing on my own,” he sighed. “I’m sure the freckled boy could have done it.”

The phoenix cocked its head and brushed his arm with a wing. Harry smiled.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

The phoenix trilled.

“Oh, yeah, you can’t tell me.” Could it write it? Harry mentally shook himself. Now that had been a _really_ stupid thought. Birds didn’t write. “Then how should I call you? I don’t like to keep thinking of you as ‘it’ or ‘the phoenix’.”

The phoenix spread its wings in a strange upwards movement that Harry had come to think of as its equivalent of a shrug.

“What about Marco?” The phoenix’s wings snapped closed and it stared at him. “Oh, I haven’t told you about him, have I? He’s one of the boy’s friends, first division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates and Pops’ first mate. He’s a cool guy, and can turn himself into a phoenix. Though he’s blue and really big,“ Harry added thoughtfully. “What do you say?”

The phoenix, whose eyes Harry could almost swear had widened, nodded swiftly. Harry grinned.

“Marco it is, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry grinned. Marco stared at the jar he was holding, the bright blue fire it contained casting shadows in the darkening classroom.

Soon after the troll incident, the weather had turned too cold to sit outside against a tree for long anymore, and Harry had endeavoured to find them another place to meet. His search, aided by some questions here and there, had resulted in various unused classrooms throughout the castle that would work nicely, and Harry had decided on the one he had found in the seventh floor, closest to Gryffindor Tower. He simply had to open the window for Marco to enter it, and Marco —of whom Harry had come to think as a ‘he’ due to the name— always showed up at the time they had agreed.

Today was the last day before the first Quidditch match of the season, and Harry had needed to escape the madness for a while —if he heard another comment about how he would fail spectacularly, he would kill someone. Earlier that day, Hermione had used a spell so they would have a fire to keep them warm in the courtyard, and the blue flames had immediately reminded Harry of the Marco in his dreams. She had agreed to cast it again when Harry had asked her to, and now here he was.

“See? The other Marco’s flames are like this,” he told this Marco, placing the jar on an empty desk.

Marco looked up at him from his perch on one of the chairs, back at the fire and once more at Harry. He nodded.

Satisfied with himself, Harry sank gratefully in one of the chairs.

“Sorry I haven’t been around lately, things have been crazy,” he apologized, aware that it had been over a week since he last saw Marco. “Hermione’s now helping me with homework, and that’s great, but Wood has gone all mad with all the last minute practice.” He yawned, remembering how much he had wanted to punch Wood that morning when he had woke Harry up three hours before breakfast to train.

Marco rose from the chair, landed on the desk in front of Harry and, much to his confusion, dropped sideways onto it, looking at him. Then he used his free wing to cover his body and Harry understood.

“Sleep? No, I haven’t slept much lately.”

Again, Marco jumped, this time to stand on Harry’s legs —and Harry was still surprised that Marco’s talons never hurt him— and pointed with a wing to one of Harry’s wrists. To his watch. Harry looked at it.

“What about the time?” He showed the watch to Marco, who again pointed at it, then at Harry, and then closed his eyes for a moment.

It took a moment for Harry to understand what Marco meant but, when he did, he chuckled.

“I’ll try to go to bed early, don’t worry.”

Nodding, Marco flew back to his perch on the chair.

“Oh, have I told you Snape was limping earlier today? He had his leg all bloodied, I bet he tried to get past the three-headed dog.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry Potter was sure the only reason the broom didn’t manage to throw him off was his vast experience climbing trees and other generally complicated places.

As he desperately clutched the flailing broom with both hands, he could honestly say he had no idea of what had happened. Things were going well, he had been keeping an eye out for the snitch while looking to the other players —and having a laugh at Lee Jordan’s unorthodox and completely biased commentary of the game. He could hear the scared screams coming from the stands, that didn’t exactly diminish when the broom jerked and threw one of his hands off, leaving him to dangle even more perilously at a decidedly deadly height.

He was trying to grasp the broom with his now free hand again when it suddenly stopped acting as a raging bull. Before he could even stop to process what had happened, he took impulse to pull his hanging body up and climb back on the broomstick, clasping his hands tightly around it even though it didn’t act up again.

The crowd calmed fast when it was obvious whatever had happened was over and the game resumed. In the middle of all the excitement, no one noticed the bird that turned around to land back on the top of the Gryffindor stands.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that evening, after his visit to Hagrid with his friends and Hagrid’s accidental revelation of someone named Nicholas Flamel as being related to whatever the three headed dog —that Hagrid had referred to as _Fluffy_ — was guarding, Harry was expecting at least a talon to the head when he opened the window to let Marco into the classroom at the seventh floor, and was thus surprised when, instead of that, Marco dropped a bag on one of the tables and went to his usual perch at the back of a chair.

Curious, Harry closed the window and went to sit at the chair in front of the table.

“What’s this?”

Marco gestured to the bag and Harry, guessing he wanted him to open it, did as he was signalled. Inside were five Chocolate Frogs.

Harry looked up at Marco, grinning.

“Is this for me?”

Marco nodded, and then cried in what could have been either indignation or surprise when Harry caught him in a bear hug.

 

* * *

 

 

_The boy couldn’t help grinning despite the bandages that the nurses had wrapped around his torso. That fight had been fun, but of course it would have been much better without that stupid haki user swordsman trying to cut him in two._

_He stopped in his tracks when he exited the infirmary and saw Marco leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a box on the floor next to him._

_He swallowed, half fearing he would end right back in the infirmary, this time to spend some nights in there._

_“Hey,” he greeted, trying to sound casual._

_Marco pushed away from the wall, bent down to pick the box up —and the boy noticed it was a basket— and handed it to him._

_“You missed dinner.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Where do you go all the time?” Ron asked one evening while they —they being Ron and Harry— did their Transfiguration homework. It was due tomorrow, and Hermione had only agreed to help them with it if they at least tried to write the essay themselves first.

That question caught her attention as well, who raised her head from her Potions textbook to look at Harry expectantly.

“To wander around,” answered Harry, shrugging. He knew there was no reason to hide his meetings with Marco from his friends, it wasn’t as if they were doing something bad, but he wanted to keep them to himself. Why that was, Harry wasn’t sure, but that didn’t change the fact that, at least for now, he wanted to keep them to himself.

“Every day?” Hermione asked, a slightly suspicious tone in her voice. Harry nodded.

“Are you exploring the castle? Can we come?” Ron asked excitedly, dropping his quill and smearing ink on his parchment in the process, much to Hermione’s disapproval.

Now Harry felt a little awkward. How were you supposed to refuse your friends something when they wanted it and you didn’t? It wasn’t as if he had had friends before, and finally he settled for the tamest way the freckled boy from his dream used —he wasn’t about to punch anybody— being truthful.

“No, I’d rather you didn’t.”

He could see the mix of confusion and hurt on his friends’ faces, and hurried to elaborate.

“I just like to spend some time alone, really, that’s all.” So maybe that wasn’t the truth, but Ron and Hermione accepted it and went back to studying.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had landed himself in detention again not long before Christmas when, after an impressive show of self-control during the first few months of school, he had decided it wasn’t worth hearing the shit Malfoy spouted just to avoid a silly detention. It had happened in the hallways right after Professor McGonagall had asked those who would stay for the holidays to sign in a list. Harry, of course, had done so, and Malfoy had wasted no time in mocking him for not having a family that loved him and wanted him home as soon as they were outside the class. Now Malfoy would have to get his nose mended thanks to his efforts.

Unsurprisingly, Marco had shown up at the trophy room right after Filch had left once he had told Harry he would have to clean a whole shelf of trophies for his detention. Somehow, Marco seemed to know everything that went on in the castle.

What had been surprising, given Marco’s penchant for vigorously scolding him every time Harry did something stupid —he had expected to be slapped on the head by a wing as soon as the bird reached him— was that Marco had patted his leg with a wing and curled up next to him, not giving the slightest sign that he was mad or disappointed at Harry for this.

Harry tried very hard to convince himself this didn’t mean he could hit other students without earning Marco’s anger for it.

 

* * *

 

 

When Christmas finally came, there had been no advances in the mystery of whatever was past the trapdoor Fluffy protected. Harry and Ron said goodbye to Hermione, the only one of the three who would be going home as Ron’s parents had gone to visit his brother Charlie to Romania for the holidays.

Harry’s Christmas was spent mostly with Ron, as they were the only ones left in their dormitory, joined sometimes by the twins —who spent most of the time doing who knows what but joined in for some snowball fights that didn’t end well for the other students staying at the castle— and he spent several hours each day with Marco.

Once again, he had told Marco about something he had never believed he would tell anyone.

“You know, this Christmas is going to be great. I’ve never celebrated it, not really, the Dursleys never included me in the festivities, and would usually give me some ridiculous present that didn’t cost them anything and would make it clear they don’t care about me. Like the dirty rags one year.”

Marco nudged him on the cheek with his beak, and Harry could have sworn there was an angry glint in his eyes. He smiled. They were friends, and he liked to know his friend cared about him. He stroked Marco’s back.

“But this year I’m here, surrounded by magic and with friends, and it’s going to be the best Christmas ever, you’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

 

And he had been right. Although, Harry had to admit, he hadn’t expected to receive presents. That had come out as a surprise.

Hagrid had sent him a flute, which was nice even if Harry had never learned how to play an instrument. Harry tried it all the same, the flute seemed to have been carved by hand, and it didn’t sound bad.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had sent him a fifty-pence piece. That was the nicest present Harry had ever received from his relatives, and he guessed it was because they were pleased about not having him there.

Mrs. Weasley, much to Harry’s surprise, had sent him a hand-knitted sweater —in a nice shade of green— and sweets. Homemade sweets. Ron was embarrassed by it, but Harry felt a warm feeling taking place in his chest at the thought that Mrs. Weasley had taken the time to work on a present for _him_.

Once he had seen the presents, Harry had expected Hermione to send him a book, and was both amused and happy to discover a big box of Chocolate Frogs instead. She had noticed his appetite, in fact she complained even more about his appalling table manners than she did about Ron’s.

After Hermione’s present, there was one more package left, or so he thought, because when he took the parcel in his hands —a very light one despite its size— he uncovered another smaller parcel still on the floor. He tore open the one in his hands first and Ron’s jaw almost fell to the floor.

It was an invisibility cloak, and Harry did indeed disappear when he put it on. According to the note that came with it —but didn’t say who had sent it to him— the cloak had belonged to his father, and Harry felt even happier about his present when he learned this fact.

Ron was playing with the cloak —Harry had lent it to him after having him beg a little even though he had already decided to let him use it— when Harry crouched down to open the remaining present. Only Hagrid’s and the Dursleys’ had been smaller, and Harry briefly wondered why whoever had left the presents there had left it at the bottom of the pile, but put the thought aside as he carefully ripped the paper open.

His friend’s bodiless excited comments disappeared from his awareness as he stared fixedly at the thick red beads of the necklace that had been inside, a small piece of parchment folded amongst them. Harry took it in his free hand and unfolded it, the necklace still held in the other. The text was short, and it was the second card today that didn’t have a sender.

_I thought you would like this._

Harry wondered how someone could have sent this to him. He hadn’t told anybody about his dreams, only Marco.

He snorted.

_Sure, Harry, you described the guy you’ve always dreamed about to a bird, who then somehow managed to find a necklace like the one you barely gave any details about, write a note —with a quill, no less, not even an easy pen— wrap it all nicely, much better than Hagrid, and drop it here._

He chuckled at his own thoughts, but nonetheless slipped the item on, caressing the beads as they settled around his neck.

“What’s that, mate?” Ron asked, his head out of the cloak to look better at his friend’s last present. Harry had to admit it was a mildly disturbing sight.

“My new necklace,” he answered as he stood up. Taking all his Christmas cards in one hand, he went to put them into his trunk before they went down for breakfast.

No sooner had he done that, the Weasley twins burst through the door, and it was sheer luck that Ron reacted fast enough to hide the cloak under Harry’s bed.


	4. Playing detective

From the first day, Harry had known Marco had to live somewhere in the castle, there was no other reason why he would have been at the welcome feast the first day, but Harry hadn’t thought at all about it, and that was why, when he came into the Great Hall for the Christmas dinner with the Weasleys, he was surprised to see him perched on Dumbledore’s chair just like that first day.

Marco raised a wing in greeting, and Harry answered with a wave of his hand, but that was almost all the interaction they had during the feast. Almost, because when Harry opened one of the wizard crackers and got a rear admiral’s hat out of it he burst into almost hysterical laughter, earning weird looks from everyone present except for Marco, who bobbed his head and flapped his wings in what Harry took as understanding of his reaction.

He ate as much as he wanted, his lack of table manners and what Hermione had dubbed his ‘bottomless pit’, commonly known as a stomach, attracting much more attention in the small crowd present than they normally did in the meals when school was on. At least he wasn’t receiving disgusted looks —not many, Snape, McGonagall and some Slytherin boy didn’t count— because Harry had been smart enough not to emulate the freckled boy’s habit of stuffing his face in an impressive imitation of a vacuum.

All in all, Harry had been right and this had been the best Christmas ever. He was so full and so tired that, when he climbed into bed, he was asleep even before his head touched the pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, however, Ron fell asleep before Harry did, and Harry, who had been restlessly turning around in bed, sat up and took his glasses from the nightstand, putting them on. His mind went back to his presents from yesterday, more precisely to the invisibility cloak that had belonged to his father, and three words from the card accompanying it flashed through his mind.

Use it well.

Anyone would think that was advice to behave. It was also a clear challenge to break the rules. His mind made up, Harry stood up, put on his shoes, threw his school cloak over his pyjamas and the invisibility cloak over that one.

For a moment, he thought about waking up Ron, but finally decided against it. This was his first time going out on an adventure with his father's invisibility cloak, and he felt it was an important occasion between him and the father he didn't remember.

He would bring Ron some other time, tonight was for Harry alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry panted heavily, his back pressed against the wall, and he slid down it as soon as the footsteps disappeared in the hallway, the cloak still hiding him.

His plan had been simple enough: sneak into the Restricted Section and search for any reference to Nicholas Flamel. How was he supposed to know that a bloody _book_ would shriek as soon as Harry opened it, alerting Filch —who just happened to be nearby— of his presence?

Harry had replaced the book and bolted out of the library, his cloak the only reason why he hadn't been caught. Then, once Harry thought he had gotten away, he had stopped to breathe, only to have Filch show up in the same hallway he was in, _accompanied by Snape_.

Now Harry was trying to get his breathing back under control and he grimaced. He was really out of shape if a sprint like that had left him so exhausted. He had barely done any exercise aside from Quidditch —and that didn't exactly require running— since he arrived at Hogwarts, and would have to do something about it.

How was he supposed to escape detentions if he practically couldn't run? And his speed had left a lot to be desired, as well.

After an embarrassingly long time, Harry managed to breathe somewhat normally again and stood up, the cloak sliding down his shoulders as he did so. He couldn't hear footsteps or voices anymore, but he would wait before going back out into the hallways, lest one of his two pursuers had decided to keep an eye around in hopes of catching him.

He looked around. He was in what looked to be an unused classroom that would be no different from his and Marco's classroom if it wasn't for the huge mirror standing against the wall on the other side of the room.

When his eyes landed on it, he took a startled step back at what the mirror reflected. Or what it _didn't_ reflect. He wasn't standing there in the dark, dishevelled hair and ruffled robes as he knew was his current state. He was there, yes, but he was sitting down on what looked to be wooden steps, and he was taller and more muscular. He looked older, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old.

He wasn't alone.

There was a woman sitting to his left. She was a pretty red-haired woman who had bright green eyes just like Harry's. Next to her was a man who looked a lot like Harry did —though he didn't seem as fit as the older Harry in the reflection was— with the exception of his eyes. The man was talking to another, taller man dressed almost completely in white and with his brown hair styled into a pompadour.

To Harry's other side sat a blond man wearing an open shirt that displayed the huge tattoo on his chest who, much to the redheaded woman's amused annoyance, was passing Harry food that he was eating happily.

Behind them sat an enormous man looking at them with fondness as he drank from a bottle almost as big as himself, and they were surrounded by many more people eating, drinking and having fun.

He vaguely noted there was no trace of the boy who always appeared in his dreams.

Then, much to his amusement, a blond kid wearing a top hat and a smaller dark haired boy with a straw hat that was too big for him came running into the scene, and the dark haired boy crashed into the man who looked so much like Harry, sending him toppling onto the woman and the older Harry.

And the real Harry couldn't care less to know why the mirror was showing him that image, because there he was, laughing happily and surrounded by all the family he had always wished for. And it felt even greater, more _magical_ , because even though Harry had dreamed about the others plenty of times, this was the first time Harry had seen his parents.

 

* * *

 

 

For some brief seconds, Harry thought of telling Ron about the mirror, but he discarded the idea. He was sure Ron would be happy that Harry had got to see his parents, and would probably want to see them as well, but if Harry showed Ron the mirror he would have to tell him about the dreams. Harry might not know much about the wizarding world, but he was pretty sure having dreams about someone else's life wasn't normal, and he didn't want to risk that Ron decided he was crazy or too weird and didn't want to be his friend anymore.

And so, Harry didn't say anything about the mirror to Ron.

Harry wanted to tell Marco, though, because he did know about his dreams, but that day Marco didn't come to the classroom. That was fine, sometimes Marco didn't make it, and sometimes the combination of homework plus Hermione —and sometimes also Wood going crazy over Quidditch practices— prevented Harry from going to the classroom, too.

He wasn't stupid enough to believe his phoenix friend had no life aside from being with Harry.

That night, he went back to the mirror, and he cried and laughed when, much to his mother's dismay, over a hundred men started a drinking competition —Luffy and Sabo had to be bodily restrained because, apparently, they had wanted to participate. Marco, the one from the Whitebeard Pirates, won, and even though he couldn't hear a single word Harry could easily imagine that what the others were saying and yelling were complaints of how he shouldn't have participated with his power. Harry himself, almost passed out on the floor and completely inebriated, received what looked like an impressive scolding from his mother.

He would give anything to be scolded like that by her.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry, who had irresponsibly run all the way to the mirror’s classroom, ignoring all caution and stealth in favour of being there as soon as possible, barrelled through the door, barely remembering to close it somewhat carefully instead of kicking it shut, and slid to the floor in front of the mirror. The invisibility cloak fell to the ground around him.

He grinned, seeing as his older self was in a shop with his mother and Izo trying to get him to try on some clothes. He didn’t look all that pleased and, behind his mother and Izo, his father and Marco were sending him sympathetic looks.

“So, back again, Harry?”

He practically jumped out of his skin. He turned his head around, internally berating himself for having lowered his guard —he would never have done it before coming to Hogwarts, no matter where he had been or what he had been doing. There, sitting on one of the desks, was Albus Dumbledore.

“I-I didn’t see you,” he said, “Sir,” Harry added almost as an afterthought. It was annoying how he seemed to forget using that word sometimes. He was surprised no teacher had given him detention for disrespect yet. Only because he hadn’t slipped near Snape, he was sure.

“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

Harry almost sighed in relief. Dumbledore didn’t look angry, maybe that meant he would get away with only a reprimand or something.

“So,” said Dumbledore, moving to sit on the floor next to Harry, “you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.” Harry grunted noncommittally. “But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”

He almost answered it showed his family, but interrupted himself. Yes, it did show his family, but it also showed the boy from his dreams’ family. Families, really. Once again, he almost spoke to say it showed the future, because Harry himself had looked older. Which wasn’t possible, because the pirates looked as the freckled boy had known them, and there were Sabo and Luffy as children, too. And his parents had been there. No amount of wistful thinking would bring them back. Not even magic, he was sure, or people would probably never die.

“It shows you what you wish to be true,” Harry said finally, and he didn’t like the pressure that settled in his chest. He hadn’t thought of it, perhaps he hadn’t wanted to or had been too distracted by what he had been seeing to think of it, but those images, what the mirror showed, were just illusions. That mirror was dangling before him a wonderful life that would never, could never, be his.

Suddenly, Harry didn’t like the mirror nearly as much.

Dumbledore smiled. The gesture was almost like the benevolent one from before, but there was a touch of sadness in his expression this time. If it wasn’t for everything he had experienced in his dreams, Harry thought, he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.

“Yes, that is what it does. It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, if I may hazard a guess, have never known your family, and see them standing around you.” Harry nodded. A soft ache had appeared in his stomach, and his enthusiasm from earlier had vanished completely. “However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again.” Harry nodded again. He didn’t want anything to do with the mirror now that he _knew_ what it was, he didn’t want to be taunted with everything that would never be his. “If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don’t you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”

Harry stood up but stopped before putting the cloak back on. Maybe it was stupidity what made him speak, but he asked anyway.

“Professor? What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks.”

Harry stared.

“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

Alright, so that had been too personal, he should have guessed he wouldn’t receive a straight answer. At least Dumbledore wasn’t offended.

 

* * *

 

 

"I saw my parents."

Marco, perched on the edge of the desk where Harry was resting his arms, leaned his head to the side in a way he had learned to interpret as a question.

 “I found this weird mirror —Dumbledore called it the Mirror of Erised— and it showed them to me. The Whitebeard Pirates were there, and Luffy and Sabo too," he grinned. "The other Marco was there, you know." Marco trilled. "I wanted to show them to you, but the mirror is not there now. It's annoying, but I think Dumbledore was right; I can't get hung up on an illusion like that."

Another trill, and a small warm body got past his arms and soon was pressed against his chest.

Harry blushed slightly and awkwardly patted Marco on the head.

"Seriously, what's with you hugging me all the time?" Harry muttered, but did nothing to push Marco away.

 

* * *

 

 

_Let’s set out to sea one day, and live a life with more freedom than anyone else._

 

* * *

 

 

Being smacked on the head was not the reaction Harry had expected to his —completely justified— long winded complaints about the utter misfortune that had befallen him not too long after the start of term.

Rubbing his head —because the stupid flying chicken hit _hard_ — Harry glared at an equally glaring Marco.

“What? You can’t seriously be mad at me for _that_!”

Somehow, Marco scoffed —it was as much of a mystery as it had been at the beginning how he could manage such a wide range of reactions and emotions. Harry didn’t remember anything about that from his primary school lessons. But, whatever the explanation, it was clear his friend disagreed with him.

“It’s not just that Snape’s a git, which he _is_ ; he tried to _kill me_ during the last match, the spell stopped after Hermione set his robes on fire, and now he’s going to referee the next match!” he exclaimed. “Even if he doesn’t try to kill me, he’ll ruin our chances to win the Cup!”

In retrospect, Harry probably shouldn’t have mentioned the Quidditch Cup. Marco had looked willing enough to listen while Harry had expressed his concern over a new murder attempt, but as soon as the Cup was mentioned he was thumped on the head again.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry should have felt like an idiot when he realized he had read the name Nicholas Flamel back in the train, on Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frogs’ card, because if he had just remembered —or bothered to look at the text on the Dumbledore cards he had found in other Chocolate Frogs since then, he and his friends would have been saved long hours of fruitless search in the library.

As things were, Harry was too busy being fascinated, and thinking of the many possibilities, by what Hermione had just read to them.

The Philosopher’s Stone, a stone that stopped someone from dying and created gold. Yes, Harry could see why Snape would be interested in getting his hands on it. Anyone would be, really. Harry himself wasn’t all that interested in the no dying bit, but the gold... That would mean as much food as he wanted whenever he wanted it, and being able to go wherever he wanted without having to worry about the stupid prices to travel everywhere.

Harry managed to tune back into the conversation before his mind went off on some daydream. Luckily, Ron and Hermione hadn’t noticed anything.

Knowing what was under that trapdoor, however, didn’t affect in any way Harry’s school life. He had told Marco that they had discovered what was under the trapdoor, and had been surprised when he hadn’t scolded him —probably because Harry, Ron and Hermione had no plans of trying to get to the stone; facing Fluffy wasn’t an appealing prospect.

As the next Quidditch match approached, the stone took a back seat in Harry’s mind. Thoughts of his probable death became more and more common, and not only for him; Ron and Hermione were proving to be horrible at hiding their worry when they tried to reassure him.

All his fears vanished when Fred Weasley saw Dumbledore in the stands. Of course, after one murder attempt, he should have expected him to come. Dumbledore was no idiot —he _had_ known Harry had been going to look into the damn mirror— and it was no surprise he had guessed what Harry’s ‘accident’ in the previous match had been. He hoped so, at least.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was muttering the afternoon of the first Monday after the Quidditch match as he went to his and Marco’s classroom. He would have liked to go earlier —the match had been on Saturday, after all— but all of Gryffindor House seemed to have gone mad over their quick victory, not that Harry couldn’t understand, and every time he had tried to slip away, either from the tower or the table at the Great Hall, someone had stopped him and dragged him off to celebrate.

Harry hadn’t been in much of a celebratory mood, not after what he had witnessed the same day of the match, as he went to put his broom away.

The Stone had come crashing back to the forefront of his mind.

Snape was after it, now there was no doubt about that. Just great.

He pushed the classroom door open with enough strength to make it bounce against the wall with a resounding bang and kicked it closed as soon as he was inside. Barely a minute later, Marco showed up outside the window —and Harry had no idea how he did it to always appear minutes after he had arrived into the classroom— and flew in when Harry slid the glass open, carrying a bag of what turned out to be assorted sweets with him.

“That’s for me?” Harry asked and, as an answer, Marco dropped the bag before him, flying to perch on a nearby chair.

Harry took a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and opened it, popping one —blueberries, thankfully— into his mouth.

Marco trilled and bent his head to one side in that questioning gesture of his. It took Harry a moment to realize Marco must be asking about Harry’s sour mood.

He scoffed.

“I should be jumping around in happiness or something, right? I won the Quidditch match.” Marco gave no visible answer, and Harry continued. “But things just went to hell right after. Remember the Stone?”

Marco narrowed his already lazy-looking eyes and flapped his wings. Up and down. That was another way he had to say yes.

“Well, I just discovered something else. Snape’s after it, we knew that, but now it’s for sure. I saw him threatening Quirrell, I think he’s trying to get that idiot,” because, victim or not, Quirrell _was_ an idiot, “to discover how to get past Fluffy. Probably doesn’t want to get anywhere near the dog again,” Harry commented with a malicious smirk. He would’ve given anything to see how Fluffy had bit Snape.

It was probably his imagination, but Harry would have sworn Marco frowned. Either way, what he did do was shake his head.

“What? You think I’m wrong?” he asked, annoyed. “He also mentioned something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus’. We think it’s some spell Quirrell put there and Snape wants to get rid of it. Looks like Quirrell’s the only thing standing in Snape’s way to get the stone, and that’s-“

Whatever Harry had been about to say was cut off by a wing colliding with his head.

“WHAT?!” Harry exclaimed, both hands covering the spot because that had _hurt_. Hurt as in that Harry would have a lump as proof of the blow.

Marco was in the air, flapping his wings at a speed Harry knew was way faster than the one he needed to stay in place and vigorously shaking his head.

“What was that for?” he growled. Marco just kept shaking his head. “You think there’s something more than Quirrell holding Snape back?” More head shaking. “Then _what_?”

But Marco just shook his head and, when Harry didn’t guess what he meant, he flew over to the blackboard, but there was no chalk anywhere.

Had Marco been trying to _write_?

Harry scoffed.

 _Yeah, sure_.


	5. Magical creatures and artefacts

Despite all their worrying, nothing happened and things continued on their normal routine. Or they would have if Hermione hadn’t decided to go crazy over the need to study for exams, _before the Easter holidays_ , and nagged at Harry and Ron to do the same. Harry’s time was divided between classes, Quidditch practices, studying in the library with Ron and Hermione and hiding in the classroom. At least Marco, for all his worrying, didn’t seem to care whether Harry studied or not.

Harry had begun to borrow wizards’ games from his friends and to take them to the classroom because that was the only time he could really relax and just play. He had gleefully thought he could teach Marco to play chess and win —because Ron always beat him when they played— and was thoroughly surprised —and, let’s admit it, annoyed and humiliated— when Marco beat his ass in the first attempt. Just great, now he lost even to birds.

Chess wasn’t his thing, it seemed. Marco was good with cards, too, but at least with those Harry didn’t lose every single time.

And then, to break the monotony of Harry’s life, Hagrid got himself a dragon.

Hermione had been scandalized when they saw the dragon egg, Ron had been somewhere between worried and resigned and Harry... he _had_ tried to join his friends in their worry, he really had. But, seriously, a _dragon_. That was just too awesome.

Hermione hadn’t been pleased when he had let that particular thought slip, but Hagrid had been delighted to tell Harry about dragons —not everything he knew, because Hagrid knew a lot and they hadn’t had enough time, but enough that Harry now thought the little guy in the egg would be _great_ once it was born.

When Harry had begun to ditch study sessions in favour of visiting Hagrid and the little egg, Hermione had been even _less_ pleased, but pondering about what Hagrid knew about that particular species of dragons —a Norwegian Ridgeback—what would be necessary to take care of it and how it would grow beat studying at any time.

Harry had weighed the pros and cons of telling Marco about the dragon egg, as Marco had a temper —just ask Harry’s head— and worried way too much. He finally decided to tell him, taking a book with him to try to block any possible blows, and was surprised when Marco didn’t get mad. From then on, Harry gave Marco frequent reports on the dragon, as Hermione glared at him every time he started to excitedly talk about it.

But, really, _a dragon_... He couldn’t wait.

The day Hagrid wrote him a note saying it was hatching, Ron, who had only sporadically joined in Harry’s excitement up to that point, tried to help Harry convince Hermione to skip Herbology to go see the egg, but she won the argument and the visit was adjourned to their morning break.

They arrived just in time to see it hatch. It was such a little thing it was hard to imagine how it would be when grown up. Harry couldn’t wait.

And, of course, Draco Malfoy had been spying on them and saw it.

 

* * *

 

 

Unfortunately, the combination of Malfoy’s nasty smile the following days and the fact that Norbert —it was a better name than _Fluffy_ , at least— was growing at an astounding speed, meant Hagrid, and Harry, had to give in to Hermione’s insistence and agree that keeping Norbert wasn’t a viable thing to do.

That Ron had a dragon handler brother came in handy to formulate a plan to get the little dragon —which already breathed fire!— out of the school without getting Hagrid in trouble.

It was a pity, really, because Harry truly liked Norbert. He had decided, during his brief time with the dragon, that the fire breathing creatures were some of the most amazing magical animals. Aside from phoenixes, of course. Ron disagreed. The same day they received Charlie Weasley’s, the dragon handler, answer about the dragon, said dragon bit Ron, and Ron decided he didn’t like the little guy all that much anymore. Hermione, of course, though she had nothing against _Norbert_ specifically, had opposed the whole situation from the beginning, and was glad to have finally found a way to put an end to it.

That was probably the only reason why she agreed to the very stupid plan to carry the dragon up to the Astronomy Tower with the invisibility cloak on Saturday night.

And it had to be her to accompany Harry, because Ron seemed to have caught an infection due to Norbert’s bite and was confined to the Hospital Wing until it healed.

Of course, as Harry’s luck seemed to be on vacation since the school year had begun, Malfoy discovered their plan.

Right after handing Norbert over to Charlie’s friends —Harry’s eyes might or might have not misted over with tears— Harry revised his opinion on his luck: it wasn’t on vacation, it was out to get him in trouble. There was no other explanation as to why they could have been so stupid to forget the invisibility cloak in the Astronomy Tower and be caught by Filch, who had gleefully brought them to McGonagall’s office.

Earlier that night, Harry and Hermione had seen Professor McGonagall catch Malfoy when he had been waiting for them to catch them while they smuggled Norbert out of the school. Much to Harry’s horror, Malfoy wasn’t the only one who had apparently known about their escapade. Poor Neville had heard the story, too, and had tried to warn them, thus joining the happy parade of first years on detention.

They had also lost a ton of points. Harry didn’t particularly care —the point system was stupid, even if he _was_ a competitive guy. Hermione, however, could have passed out when they lost them, and Neville had turned so white Harry had feared he would never recover his normal skin tone.

Harry didn’t mind much the scorn he received from almost the entirety of the school after the debacle with the points, it was nothing in comparison to how the boy in his dreams had grown up and that thought made it easy to ignore. Besides, Ron stood by him, despite how much he hated Slytherin —now first of the competition for the House Cup— and, surprisingly, Marco hadn’t scolded him either. Truth be told, Marco had pointed to a chair as soon as Harry had entered the classroom the first day and there, sitting innocently, was his invisibility cloak. Harry was convinced now that Marco had followed them when they went to give Norbert away.

After that day, Harry found himself with an unexpected amount of free time. He hadn’t realized how much time he spent talking to his classmates and housemates, but now that nobody talked to him he had all that time to himself. Hermione spent even more time now studying and Harry, who felt sorry that she —who had been against keeping Norbert in the school from the start— was having such a hard time, made it a point not to miss any study sessions. He spent more of them than he bothered to count doodling, but he was there, just as Ron did, to make sure Hermione wouldn’t get distracted and go on a tangent about how it would be impossible to recover all those points and how they might have been expelled and would be if something like that ever happened again.

To keep Hermione’s mind at ease, Harry promised not to wander at night or do anything to break the rules, and he had been doing nicely until a week before the exams, when he was sorely tempted to break his promise. He overheard a terrified Quirrell agreeing to do something before fleeing in what was a hairs’ breath away from being a sobbing mess and, though there had been no one in the room where Quirrell had been, said room had another door that had been ajar, and Harry was sure Snape had left through there.

Apparently, Marco disagreed, as the multiple, furious pecks Harry received on the head proved.

That bird could be really weird sometimes. Or, perhaps, Marco was just trying to tell him not to stick his nose in the Philosopher’s Stone affair.

That had to be it.

 

* * *

 

 

They were going to the Forbidden Forest.

If Hermione hadn’t been so busy being scared, she would have scolded Harry for looking so gleeful. Filch sure had given him a weird look when he had smiled at the news. Harry had no doubt Filch had informed them of it in hopes of terrifying them —Hermione, Neville and Malfoy were terrified, but Harry wasn't.

Harry had completely forgotten about his resolve from the first day to go explore the forest, what with his new magical life and all that. He remembered his decision of staying out of trouble, of course he did, but now he had a sanctioned reason to go into the forest. He could do some exploring and no one would scold him for it, he only had to be careful to stick to Hagrid’s instructions, as Hagrid was the one supervising their detention. That would be easy, he knew Hagrid well enough to know he would be happy to answer all of Harry's questions and, this being his first visit, everything would be new to him, which meant Harry wouldn’t have to sneak away to discover new things in the forest.

Harry had the presence of mind to wrap a comforting arm around Hermione’s shoulders and barely managed to suppress his excitement. He was supposed to be punished, and it wouldn’t do for someone to think he should go back because this didn’t seem much of a punishment to him and instead have him do something boring like cleaning trophies. Again.

It wasn’t hard to sober up once Hagrid told them what they were going to do. Something was attacking unicorns, and they had to find a hurt unicorn. Harry had read about them, and he thought they were cool. It didn’t sound right that something was hunting them.

Suddenly, it didn’t feel so right to pester Hagrid with questions about the forest. He would leave that for later.

 

* * *

 

 

“...And then the thing, whatever it was, appeared again. It didn’t see us, and went to the unicorn to, well, drink its blood.” Marco interrupted with a soft cry and Harry nodded, grimacing. “Yeah, I know it keeps you alive but curses you. Who would want that? And killing others to get it? I’d like to kick its ass. Though I guess at first I’d have to figure out how to avoid that pain in the head.” Marco inclined his head to the side in question. “Oh, right, that. You see, we were watching when that idiot Malfoy, when the thing started to drink the unicorn’s blood, screamed and ran off, Fang with him. Then the thing saw me and, when I think our eyes would’ve met if it wasn’t for the hood it was wearing, I felt the pain. It was like my head was being slit open or something.”

Harry rubbed his forehead in remembrance and took a gulp of the bottle of water he had brought with him.

“One of the centaurs —you know, like the cryptic guys we’d seen earlier— saved me. It wasn’t one of the two from earlier. His name was Firenze, and didn’t seem as stuck up as the others. Not very popular, either, if the scolding he got from one of the others was anything to go by. I like him better than the others.”

Again, Marco gave him that questioning look, and Harry sighed. This was the real reason why he was telling him the story, sharing his experience aside. He needed to talk about it with someone other than Ron and Hermione, and Marco was a good listener most of the time.

“He didn’t use these words, but Firenze basically told me that the _thing_ was fucking Voldemort, who apparently wants the Stone so he can brew that Elixir of Life and return.”

Harry wasn’t sure what reaction he had been expecting exactly, but at least some show of surprise from Marco. That Marco didn’t so much as chirp utterly confused him.

“What? You don’t get it? Snape doesn’t want the Stone for himself, he’s trying to get it for Voldemort.”

Harry knew Marco was a very human-like bird, but he still felt somewhat surprised every time Marco did something that looked wrong for a bird to do. This time, however, when Marco did that scoff-like gesture of his, Harry was too busy growing annoyed to be bothered.

“What? You _still_ don’t believe me?”

Marco flapped his wings, shook his head and Harry abruptly stood up.

“Damn it, Marco! What more proof do you need?!”

Marco flew up from the desk, trilling repeatedly, and still shaking his head. Harry growled.

“I don’t know why I bother,” he snapped, turning to the door.

Marco flew after him, but Harry swat him away with a hand.

“Forget it, Marco. I got exams next week.”

 

* * *

 

 

A combined state of worry and anger wasn’t a good way to sit through exams, and, deep down, Harry knew the only reason he didn’t completely mess them up were the long hours he had spent studying with Ron and Hermione. He was too distracted to acknowledge that fact, though.

He had been so stressed, he hadn’t even found the humour in his Charms practical exam when Professor Flitwick told him to make a pineapple tap dance across the desk it was on. In fact, Harry had gotten in an even worse mood at the sight of the pineapple, being reminded of Marco —even if it was the human one— and the fruit found its end against the floor when it toppled over the edge of the table halfway through the dance.

It didn’t help, either, that Harry had nightmares. There was the hooded figure dripping unicorn blood in a couple of them, but what he saw the most was a dark, dank cell where the boy was chained to a wall with an amount of metal that probably weighed more than he did. Sometimes Jinbe —a fishman that appeared often in the dreams after the boy became a pirate, especially when he was part of the Whitebeard Pirates— was there, and others he wasn’t. Other people he couldn’t see yelled insults at him many times, and it took Harry four nights to learn where that cell was.

Impel Down, level six. The impenetrable prison.

It looked like he had discovered why he had never dreamt past the boy being twenty: it didn’t seem likely he had grown older than that.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry thought about sneaking out to the classroom, see if Marco was there and tell him they were going to try to prevent Snape from stealing the Stone, but pushed the idea away as soon as it came. Marco was unreasonable when it came to Snape and the Stone, and Harry didn’t want to risk having him attempting to stop them. It wasn’t as if they had seen each other lately, Marco probably hadn’t even been to the classroom in days.

But he was _sure_ Snape would attempt to steal the Stone tonight. Because they had just discovered Hagrid had told the man who gave him Norbert’s egg how to get past Fluffy —and here Harry had thought nothing would shadow the fondness he felt when he thought of little Norbert— and Dumbledore wasn’t in the school. Of course, McGonagall —who had told them about Dumbledore being away— refused to believe the Stone was in danger, and that left the responsibility to them.

As they had nothing to do while they waited for night to arrive, Harry spent the time fretting. He thought of everything that would go wrong if Voldemort got the Stone, which brought him to think of everything he knew the man had done in the past, which in turn resulted in him thinking of how Voldemort had killed his parents, preventing him from even remembering them, from having a normal childhood, leaving him stuck with the Dursleys.

By the time they were to leave, Harry was in a positively bad mood.

 

* * *

 

 

A strangling plant and some beautiful fire, a flying key and a game of chess that hadn’t gone so well —because Harry’s luck couldn’t have come back in full— and an already dead troll later, found Harry and Hermione standing in a small chamber, both doors blocked by magical fire, before a table lined with potions and a logic puzzle Hermione had just deciphered. Two doors behind, unconscious after having been hurt to win the chess game with the giant wizarding pieces, whose violence didn’t seem too fun to Harry anymore, was Ron.

The problem now was that the bottle that would allow them to cross to the next room was too small for the two of them to drink.

“Which one will get you back through the purple flames?”

Hermione didn’t look amused at his wording, but pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line. A little of logic, however, served to convince her. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to defeat Snape, much less Voldemort, and thus needed help. That, combined with the fact that Ron should be seen by Madam Pomfrey, helped to get Hermione to agree to take Ron with her. Not without an awkward hug first. Harry wasn’t used to hugs, they hadn’t exactly been common in his life. If he had to be honest, Hermione was the first human to hug him that he could remember.

Once he was alone and before drinking the potion, Harry took a moment to berate himself for never doing that training he had thought he needed earlier in the year. It wouldn’t have hurt to check some offensive magic, either.

He drank the potion, marched into the flames and let out a loud, unflattering expletive when, in the other side of the fire, he saw Professor Quirrell.

 _Well, this explains Marco’s behavior._ Was the ridiculous thought that crossed Harry’s disconcerted mind.

“Language, Potter,” Quirrell said, too calm for Harry’s liking. “I wondered whether I’d be meeting you here.” He wasn’t stuttering.

 _What the-? Asshole_. Of course. What was better to commit a crime than having everybody think you were too stupid and useless to do it? Everything Harry had witnessed relating the Stone so far came back to mind and, with this new information, he felt like a real idiot. It looked like _Snape_ had been the only one not fooled by Quirrell. There was only one thing that didn’t make sense. Unless…

“ _You_ tried to kill me at the Quidditch match, not Snape.”

“Exactly, and I would have succeeded if Severus hadn’t been casting a counter spell.” After that, Quirrell went on about how Hermione had knocked him over, and then to explain how Snape’s efforts to _save_ Harry —and wasn’t that a difficult concept to wrap one’s mind around?— had been in vain.

Harry only half listened, not interested in the boasting of someone so obviously full of himself and busy trying to find a way to gain time for someone to come. It didn’t sound very likely, now that Harry thought of it, as Dumbledore was out of the school, but at least he could try to use that time to think of a way out of this mess. That second part looked more complicated. Maybe he could get Quirrell to talk himself to death? The guy seemed to like it, he probably wanted to make up for all the speech opportunities lost due to his fake stutter.

Being wrapped in ropes that appeared out of nowhere did draw Harry’s attention back to Quirrell. That ruled out some of the possible plans to escape. Talking would have to do for now.

It was only after another ramble, this time about the troll back in Halloween, that Quirrell seemed to decide he had heard enough of his own voice for now.

“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

It was only then that Harry noticed the Mirror of Erised standing behind Quirrell. It took all of his effort not to look at it directly, and instead he concentrated on Quirrell who, it seemed, still hadn’t had enough of talking.

Getting him to talk even more proved to be ridiculously easy. That was how Harry found out the story behind the forest incident —just that the attempt at intimidation on Snape’s part had been for the opposite reason than he believed— and that, yes, this bastard worked for Voldemort. He also learned, on a less Stone-relevant note, that Snape had gone to school with his father and they had hated each others’ guts. It was something to think about, what was so bad to hate Harry so much after so many years. At a later date, because now he had a psycho Voldemort follower attempting to steal the Philosopher’s Stone to take care of right now.

And then Harry discovered the one in the classroom with Quirrell the other day was _Voldemort_. So much for Hogwarts being the safest place in the wizarding world.

Quirrell went back to mumbling about the mirror and the Stone and, with a sinking feeling, Harry realized the clue to find it must be inside the mirror, which required _looking_ at it. Which Harry felt he couldn’t do. He didn’t feel strong enough to face _that_ illusion again and, even if for some miracle he did, what if he found the way to reach the Stone or, worse yet, the Stone itself? That would make it even easier for Quirrell to obtain it.

No way was Harry looking again into that damn mirror.

“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!” Quirrell spoke again to himself. Or so Harry thought.

“Use the boy… Use the boy…” If it wasn’t for the ropes, said boy would have jumped back, startled.

Quirrell turned to Harry. His eyes had a mad glint in them, none of the previous cool demeanor remaining. He clapped his hands, the ropes binding Harry disappeared and, before he could think of what was going on, Harry jumped to his feet.

“Come here,” Quirrell said. “Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”

“Like hell,” Harry snapped, and took a defiant step back. He wasn’t getting anywhere near the mirror.

“What?” Quirrell’s voice came out loud, breathy and disbelieving.

“I’m not obeying you.”

Quirrell’s eyes opened wide, he seemed to take in a quick, deep breath and his face was the reflection of anger. Desperate anger. It wasn’t, however, him who spoke.

“Make him…” said the voice from before.

Harry’s reflexes from years of fighting bullies and idiots kicked in and he moved out of the way in time to dodge Quirrell, who had gone for a physical approach instead of a magical one in his attempt to capture Harry. Next, Quirrell brought his wand out, and Harry threw himself to the floor to avoid the spell sent his way. He couldn’t get his own wand out of his pocket before he had to roll to the side to dodge the next spell.

“Stop running, Potter!”

“Yeah, sure!” He threw himself to the opposite side this time and then, not as startling as before, that disembodied voice spoke once more.

“Let me speak to him… face to face…”

Surprisingly, Quirrell stopped his attacks, but Harry didn’t take his eyes away from the man’s wand.

“Master, you are not strong enough!”

“I have strength enough… for this…”

When Quirrell returned his wand to one of his robes’ pockets and raised both hands to unwrap his turban, Harry watched closely, both puzzled and apprehensive of what he man was doing.

Then Quirrell turned, and Harry would have thrown up had he eaten recently. Because, instead of the back of his head, he had a face. A second face that didn’t quite look like a face; lacking a nose, so pale it probably had never been touched by the sun and with bright, glaring red eyes.

He almost made a quip.

“Harry Potter…” said the second face, who, Harry guessed, was Voldemort. ”See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor… I have form only when I can share another’s body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… Unicorn blood has strengthened me these past weeks… you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don’t you look into that mirror?”

Harry took a step back, eyes darting to the entrance.

“Don’t be a fool,” snarled Voldemort. “Better save your own life and join me… or you’ll meet the same end as your parents… They died begging me for mercy…”

And that was as far as Harry’s self-preservation instinct went. Growling, he charged at Quirrell, who wasn’t far from him, and, as Quirrell’s back was to him and apparently Voldemort couldn’t control the body, neither of them reacted in time to dodge Harry or the fist that slammed right into Voldemort’s disfigured face.

Harry screamed in pain, the same feeling from back at the forest stabbing him from his scar, and it took him a moment to register Voldemort’s shriek, paired with a howl from Quirrell. The professor stumbled forward at the same time as Harry took a step back, a hand held up, pressed against his forehead.

Voldemort’s previously white face had now a blistering red mark where Harry’s fist had impacted, and he was hissing, his mouth contorted into an even uglier sneer.

“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort.

In a swift movement, Quirrell turned around and lunged at Harry at a surprising speed. Instinct kicking in, Harry raised both hands and shoved them at Quirrell’s face. Quirrell howled again and Harry, teeth biting his lips so hard he could taste blood, moved his hands down his neck and wrapped them —as best as he could— around it.

Voldemort was now ordering Quirrell to kill Harry, but Quirrell couldn’t obey, hands flailing and trying to pry Harry’s own hands away from his neck, pulling back as they were burned on contact just to try again once more.

The pain in Harry’s head grew as the time passed, his eyes lost focus, and it was all a blaze of pain and screams.

Quirrell’s neck disappeared from between his hands and adrenaline was no longer enough to keep him standing. Harry fell, and something… an arm, strong, comforting and familiar, wrapped around him.

“Ace!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have modified the scene at the stone chamber a lot (and that Harry didn't get to hear some information because of that), but can any of you seriously imagine this Harry acting as canon Harry did in there? Besides, I'm not too sure he would have been able to obtain the stone. He might have no interest in eternal life, but Ace was a pirate. I'll leave that up to your imagination.
> 
> Also, without the whole stone part, the scene happened faster than it did in the books.
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated :)


	6. Of identities

_"Hey, gramps," the boy, who couldn't be older than six at this point, asked_ _his grandfather, who was_ _sitting in one of the boulders facing the cliff, "what was my mom's full name?"_

_"Rouge's?" The boy nodded, not turning away from the sight of the seemingly endless sea disappearing into the horizon. "Portgas D. Rouge, that was her name."_

_The child nodded._

_"Then that will be my name."_

_"What?"_

_"I don't care about that useless piece of shit that's supposed to be my father, I don't want to be connected with him. 'Gol D.' isn't part of my name now. Portgas D. Ace, that's my name from now on."_

 

* * *

 

 

Harry blinked awake, his eyes finding something golden that, for the briefest of moments, he thought might be a strangely shaped haircut. But it was too bright and shiny for that, and his half functioning brain identified it as a golden pair of glasses. Twinkling blue eyes gazed down at him, and the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore came into focus above him.

 “Good afternoon, Harry.”

Harry blinked. He felt slightly dizzy, confused and very much hungry. And where was he, anyway? The last thing he remembered was being at the Stone chamber, trying to burn Quirrell to death. He groaned. At least he had managed to survive somehow.

“What happened?”

Dumbledore sighed and straightened back in his chair.

“After your fight with Quirrell, you were exhausted, and we brought you to the Hospital Wing to rest. That was three days ago. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried.”

“Are they okay?” Harry demanded, somewhat harshly, remembering how Ron had been hurt back during the chess match.

Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind his rudeness.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Madam Pomfrey fixed Mr. Weasley’s injury in a minute when he came in.”

Harry sighed, relieved. Leaning back against his pillow, because Dumbledore wouldn’t be here chatting with him if things weren’t well with the Stone, he finally took in his surroundings, noticing a table that was piled with so many sweets his stomach growled in approval. Dumbledore must have noticed where he was looking.

“Tokens from your friends and admirers. What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

Harry smirked. It was a pity, he would have laughed a lot if he had woken to the sight of the infamous toilet seat. Either way, it looked like he was back in the other students’ good graces. As they had sent him food, Harry was willing to overlook these past weeks’ behaviour.

“Sir? What happened down there?”

“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well. Professor Quirrell did not manage to find the Stone. I arrived to find you unconscious on the floor, and a meter away from you was Professor Quirrell.”

“Was he dead?” Harry asked, his mind conjuring up what he could remember of that time. What the professor said didn’t make sense. He could remember having his hands around Quirrell’s neck, Quirrell screaming and Voldemort ordering him to kill Harry as Harry’s strength left him. But then, he thought he felt Quirrell being pulled away from him, someone stopping his fall and a voice calling…

_“Ace!”_

“He was,” Dumbledore said solemnly. Misinterpreting Harry’s worried expression, he added: “You have nothing to worry about, my boy, no one would judge you for defending yourself.”

Harry decided it would be best not to mention how exactly the fight had gone. It _had_ been self defence, there was no doubt Quirrell would have attacked him eventually, but he wasn’t sure how Dumbledore would react to the knowledge that Harry had landed the first blow, and had aimed to kill from the beginning.

“However, I must confess I was surprised to discover you didn’t have the Stone in your possession.”

Harry averted his eyes, fixing them on a box of Bertie Boots.

“I didn’t want to look into the mirror.”

Dumbledore sighed, and Harry couldn’t hold back the bizarre thought that, despite his following response, he was a little disappointed.

“Understandable.”

“What will happen with the Stone now?”

“It has been destroyed.”

And Harry was told of how the Flamels were prepared to die. Harry couldn’t understand how someone would be so calm about dying —he wasn’t afraid of death by any means, but to just _choose_ it? The idea escaped his mind— Dumbledore was right in guessing that Harry couldn’t grasp the concept. The only person Harry could think, present company aside, that would probably understand such a thing was-

Harry bit his cheek, refusing to let his mind go there. Not now, when he was with someone who could ask if anything was wrong. It was all so confusing.

“He’s not gone forever, is he? Voldemort, I mean,” Harry asked instead.

He was surprised when Dumbledore didn’t flinch or scold him for using the name. Instead, he smiled, and Harry could have sworn there was pride in that gesture.

“I’m afraid so, Harry. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share… not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power.”

Harry realized that, though they might be true, those words were also aiming to soothe him. Had he been just an almost twelve year old boy, he wouldn’t have noticed, but his dreams had taught him more about life than any other experience he had ever had, and he knew problems were hardly ever avoided so easily.

He decided that even if he couldn’t ponder right now what had happened back in the dungeons, this was an excellent chance to disclose some of the mysteries that surrounded his life and recent experiences.

He didn’t get all the answers he wanted. He did learn about the protection his mother’s death had given him, that Dumbledore was the mysterious person who gave him his cloak and that the reason Snape had tried to save his life was because he owed a life debt to his father —it was a strange thought, to realize that Snape had such a sense of honour that he had tried to repay the debt even though he had hated his father, and Harry himself, so much. However, Dumbledore refused to tell him why Voldemort had tried to kill him when he was a baby, because Voldemort’s own words told him _he_ , and not his parents, had been the target of the attack. Harry would discover it, even if he had dropped the subject for now.

Dumbledore left soon after and Harry, taking one of the huge boxes of Chocolate Frogs and biting into one of the sweets with gusto, settled down to try to figure out the events from three days ago.

Harry had been fighting Quirrell, burning him with what he now knew was the result of his mother’s protection, and then Quirrell had been pulled away from him. Quirrell had been dead when Dumbledore had found them, and Harry could estimate, despite how out of it he had been at that point, that he had probably spent enough time burning Quirrell’s neck to have caused his death. Dumbledore hadn’t mentioned anybody being there, so either there had been nobody or it had been a professor or something, but it didn’t make sense not to mention them then.

Which couldn’t have been, because the voice was the clearest thing he remembered of the whole ordeal.

Harry groaned again, stuffed a whole Chocolate Frog into his mouth and raised his head from the pillow to drop it again in a way that would have hurt against a harder surface. It hurt all the same, but that was his headache.

There was only one person — _bird_ — who knew about Ace, but Harry had never told him his name because he had _just learned it_.

Which meant whoever had been there had already known.

And it didn’t make sense, but it _did_ make sense at the same time.

Harry decided to forget he had a working brain for now and indulge in sweets.

 

* * *

 

 

While talking to Ron and Hermione, Harry finally reached the conclusion —that his friends already had— that Dumbledore had expected them to try to stop Quirrell and, instead of preventing it, had helped them. Not that he minded, it was just that his brain had been too occupied by fire users to make the connection.

Hagrid felt so guilty about the whole Fluffy thing that he had almost had a nervous breakdown when he visited Harry, which was one of the most awkward situations Harry had ever experienced. Although Hagrid had apparently decided that the best way to apologize was by giving Harry a photo album of his parents. Harry was delighted, and even more so when he realized that, for all the mind games it pulled, the Mirror of Erised had been accurate when showing them to him.

Madam Pomfrey had insisted on him staying up in the Hospital Wing until the last moment before the feast —which he was allowed to attend— but Harry, who wanted to do something before the meal, had used every ounce of his stealth skills to slip out of the place when the matron’s attention was elsewhere. He knew he risked losing all his sweets, and that was why he had inhaled the ones he liked the most during the day. It wasn’t as if there were many left once he was done.

Harry was greeted by many students on the way, and congratulated for getting rid of the evil professor, and by the time he reached his destination, the only reason why the place wasn’t empty was that Severus Snape hated people, and attempted to spend as little time as possible attending meals in general and feasts in particular.

It was obvious, by the surprise on Snape's face, that he hadn’t expected to see Harry Potter when he grumpily granted permission to enter his office to whoever had decided to knock on his door.

Snape’s lips curled.

“Potter,” he practically spat, “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to suffer your presence until next year.”

Harry half-smiled, because that reaction had been so predictable and at the same time tamer than he had expected that he couldn’t help it.

“Sorry, sir. I swear it’ll only be a moment.”

“Well?” sneered Snape. “Get it over with.”

Harry bowed in the same way Ace had done so many times in his dreams.

"I'm sorry I thought you were after the Stone and trying to kill me."

When it didn't seem like Snape would answer, Harry raised his head to be met with one of the strangest sights he had ever seen. Snape looked... confused wasn't the word. So beyond disconcerted that, for once, there didn't seem to be any room for hatred in his dark eyes would describe it better.

Finally, Snape seemed to pull himself together.

"The next time you decide to play hero —because I have no doubt that a troublemaking brat like you will do so sooner rather than later— do try and use your brain, as difficult as the concept sounds."

As no threats were dished out —points couldn’t be taken so late in the year— Harry decided to take those words as Snape's version of 'apology accepted', and left before Snape decided to change his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry spent the last days of the school year, after the feast where Dumbledore awarded them the points necessary for Gryffindor to win the House Cup, in the empty classroom of the seventh floor whenever he could, but Marco didn’t show up. Marco didn’t come the first day to check on him, neither did he come the day Harry received his grades —he had passed everything.

Before he knew it, Harry was back in the Hogwarts Express to return to the Dursleys’ for the holidays and he hadn’t seen even a single feather of Marco.

Not even the thought that his relatives didn’t know he couldn’t do magic outside of school, and thus he could terrify them with it, cheered him up.

He said goodbye to his friends —Ron had invited both him and Hermione to go to his house sometime during the summer, and Mrs. Weasley, who they had met outside the platform, had futilely attempted to greet Uncle Vernon.

And so, Harry was off to a summer that didn’t look as bright as it ni doubt did to many of his classmates.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry Potter wasn’t a happy boy.

His summer, that shouldn’t have been so bad because of the threat of magic to his relatives, now _sucked_ , because as soon as they had arrived to Privet Drive Uncle Vernon had confiscated all his school things, wand included —and Harry couldn’t really curse him even if he really wanted to— and Stefan had been confined to her cage.

He hadn’t received a single letter from his so-called friends all summer —Harry thought of them as friends, but the current situation brought out his bitterness, and a bitter Harry was an unpleasant thing to witness— and there had been no sight of bipolar, mythical flaming birds.

To top it off, today was Harry’s birthday, and not only had his relatives not remembered —big surprise— but there was still no trace of his friends. He would be confined to his room for the night because Uncle Vernon had this allegedly very important business dinner with some rich prospective clients, and Harry had slipped out of the house that morning as soon as he could to get away from all the saccharine preparations that made him both sick and amused in a way he knew would only get him in trouble.

Harry had considered staying in the back garden, but left the moment Dudley came to mock him because, for once, the oaf remembered it was Harry’s birthday and had noticed he hadn’t received any cards. It was either leave or risk beating the dumb idiot up, and that wouldn’t be good on the long run, no matter how satisfying the prospect seemed.

That was how Harry found himself walking into the neighbourhood park that morning, where only a group of little girls were playing in the sand box. He was aiming for the swings, because, as childish as they might be considered, jumping up into the air with them was the most exciting activity of Harry’s otherwise dull summer.

“Ace.”

He froze.

Slowly, Harry turned to the side.

There, standing with his back against a tree and dressed in dark green slacks and a halfway buttoned up maroon shirt that showed part of a painstakingly familiar tattoo, was a tall, muscular blond man with a haircut Harry had doodled more than once on his textbooks. Piercing, half-lidded blue eyes looked at him.

“…Marco?” Harry asked after a long silence.

Marco nodded. Harry took a hesitant step forward.

“So it _was_ you, wasn’t it?” When Marco just nodded again, Harry frowned. “You’re the _other_ Marco too, aren’t you?”

And this time, when Marco nodded, Harry growled, raised his fist and lunged at him. Marco didn’t move to dodge, not that he really needed to because, when Harry’s fist collided with his hard chest, he was the one to pull back, rubbing his sore hand with a frown.

Marco hadn’t even grimaced.

Instead, much to Harry’s surprise and embarrassment, Marco smiled at him, raised a hand to ruffle his hair and, next thing he knew, Harry was pulled into a fierce hug.

He stiffened, as was his default reaction to these rare occurrences, but slowly he relaxed and wrapped his arms around Marco. If Marco trembled slightly under his hands, Harry didn’t say a word.

“I missed you…”

And, just like that, everything Harry hadn’t evendared to contemplate, too convinced of the absurdity of the idea, was confirmed.

“They aren’t just dreams, right? I _am_ Ace.”

Marco pulled back enough to look Harry in the eyes, a hand still on one of his shoulders. He hadn’t been crying, Harry noticed, but his eyes had a misty look to them that suggested he wasn’t too far from it.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I the only one who is bothered by the fact that Harry never even thought twice of Snape saving his life so often?
> 
> Now, this is the first fanart I ever got for this story, drawn by Red Pirana (http://redpirana.deviantart.com/) :)  
> While the small phoenix form keeps book canon colouring, in this one he keeps the OP colouring:  
> 


	7. An unwelcome birthday present

"So," Ace —Harry— spoke at last. They were sitting in the bench farthest away from both the park entrance and the group of little girls playing in the sandbox, "why didn't you tell me before?"

Marco almost smiled, barely managing to hold back because it was a serious topic of conversation and Ace —Harry— would probably punch him if he smiled. He sat still next to Marco and had a very serious expression on his face, while someone less proud or more weak willed would probably have been fidgeting nervously.

"I wanted to get to know you first."

Ace —Harry, and wasn't it strange that he had his freckles? Neither Lily nor James Potter had had them— frowned and gave him a confused look.

"You already knew me."

Marco shook his head.

"No, I knew Ace. You'd lived eleven more years as Harry, and that's the one I wanted to know." He kept to himself the fact that he would probably have expected to see only the Ace he remembered if he hadn't done things this way.

"Oh." He nodded in understanding, and an awkward silence followed. "Why were you at Hogwarts?"

Marco had thought a lot about this particular question and its implications and, as selfish as it might be, he didn't want to have that conversation right now. Not the first day. He settled for the simplest answer.

"For the last few decades I've been Albus Dumbledore's phoenix familiar, Fawkes."

A puzzled expression took over Ace's — _Harry's_ — face for a moment before being replaced by a painstakingly familiar smirk.

"Does he know you're not exactly a bird?"

"No," Marco answered with a little amused smile of his own, "he thinks I'm just a phoenix that experienced a trauma."

"Why a trauma?"

"Have you read anything about phoenixes?"

"Yeah. They can heal with their tears and are rumoured to be able to appear at places and disappear and... you can't do any of those," Ace — _Harry_ — realized.

Marco inclined his head in acknowledgement. Albus thought he had experienced something horrible like Ariana Dumbledore had and, though Marco felt bad for taking advantage of the memory of Albus' long dead sister, it had been a good way to avoid the his suspicion.

"How can you do that, anyway?" was the next question.

"Do what?"

"Turn into a small bird. You couldn't do it before."

"I got the idea from one of your brother's crewmates. He had seven forms."

They lapsed into silence again, and Marco decided it was time to ask.

"Do you have plans for today?" He knew the Dursleys were a useless waste of air that wouldn't do anything for their nephew, but maybe he was meeting with friends.

"Plans?"

"For your birthday."

A shadow crossed Ace's —he wouldn't bother to correct himself anymore— face, but it was quickly replaced by an annoyed grimace before Marco could ask.

"Just pretending that I don't exist while the Dursleys play perfect hosts for this 'very important' dinner of Uncle Vernon's." The way Ace said this, it was clear how sick he was of the whole thing. "Why do you want to know?"

"It's your birthday, I thought we could celebrate."

Ace grinned, but the expression faltered.

"Just not around here, I think I've eaten and run at all of the restaurants," he admitted in what for him passed as a sheepish manner.

Marco chuckled, not at all surprised to learn that the tradition still existed. It had been a source of amusement back in the crew.

"Don't worry, my car's right out of the park."

Ace blinked perplexedly at him.

"You have a car?"

Marco shrugged.

"I have a lot of free time."

And wizards weren't as interesting as they thought they were once you learned how their world worked. They certainly didn't evolve fast in most cases. It was more fun to learn how to use muggle technology.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had spent a good ten minutes laughing once he saw Marco’s car. Oh, it was a very nice sports car, he wouldn’t deny it, but he had recognized it from one of Dudley’s car magazines —Dudley had had a phase where he had been obsessed with cars, and Harry had managed to read some of the magazines once Dudley was tired of browsing them.

Marco had glared at him, and probably the only reason the glare had lasted almost a full minute before he, too, broke out laughing was his considerable self control. He had admitted he hadn’t been able to resist buying it.

Harry was no expert on cars, he had never really been interested in them and had read the magazines only because he didn’t have anything better to do at the time, but that particular car had caught his attention the moment he had seen it. He couldn’t tell the year or model, but he was pretty sure that it was a _Firebird_. Marco’s reaction had confirmed it.

Now, after the hour trip to London, Harry was stuffing his face at the Chinese restaurant they had decided on. He might have felt bad that it wasn't an 'eat all you can' place, and thus the bill would probably be terrifying, but Marco had assured him money wasn't a problem. And what kind of pirate didn't take advantage of such a nice chance to get free food? It was strange, to be honest, how easily he had accepted the fact that he was Ace once Marco had confirmed it. It was as if he had already known on some unconscious level. Maybe he had.

"Where'd you get the money, anyway? You can't exactly work as a bird living at Hogwarts," he asked, paying no attention to the woman sat at the next table who was glaring at him, probably for talking with his mouth full.

"I've had a lot of time to save. I also started to keep objects some years ago and sell them as family heirlooms after a century and things like that," Marco, who had been done eating for a good fifteen minutes, answered.

Harry wanted to ask about the years that had passed, about why Marco was still here when it must have been a scarily long time, but he didn't. He had a feeling that conversation would be depressing, or at the very least a very serious one, and probably quite long. This was the first time they met being both human, and Harry didn't want to ruin it. Besides, it _was_ his birthday.

"Any plans for today?"

Marco smirked, and Harry took the precaution of stopping eating. That expression didn't mean any good more often than not, and he didn't want to risk choking.

"You need a new wardrobe."

Harry groaned.

"You're _not_ serious." Marco just stared at him. "You want to go _shopping_?!"

"We don't have to," Harry grinned, relieved, "but if you had dressed like that as a pirate your powers wouldn't have mattered. They would've called you 'rag doll Ace’ or something like that."

Harry knew he had lost the argument at that exact moment. He was aware of how dreadful his clothes were, but he abhorred the idea of a shopping trip. Still, if it was that or looking ridiculous and, as Marco had practically said, not intimidating at all...

"Just some clothes, and then we're going to the cinema."

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had to admit it, the shopping trip hadn’t been half as horrible as he had expected. It probably was due to the fact his most prominent example for one had been the time Mrs. Figg had been sick and Harry had been forced to accompany the Dursleys to buy clothes for Dudley. Aunt Petunia had been so picky and had insisted that Dudley tried on so many different outfits that Harry had felt actually glad the Dursleys didn’t buy anything for him.

Shopping with Marco was a completely different experience. He didn’t criticize anything Hsrry chose, and even pointed out some stuff Harry actually liked. He had practically jumped in excitement and scared the store clerk when Marco had found a pair of boots that resembled considerably the ones he had favoured as a pirate.

The cinema, however, hadn’t been such a success. Oh, Harry had loved it. He had never gone to a cinema before —it was in fact one of the things he had been wanting to do since he could remember— and had spent a long while deciding on what movie to watch, because Marco had said it was his birthday and thus his choice. They had bought two bowls of popcorn of the biggest size available and an amount of sweets that had earned them a worried look from the cashier and entered the already darkened room. Once the movie started, they both pretended Harry wasn’t stealing Marco’s popcorn as much as he decimated his own.

Unfortunately, the fighting scenes were wrong, and neither of them had been able to stop pointing out every mistake once they had started. They must have annoyed the people around them too much, because somewhere halfway through the movie they were asked to leave.

Harry didn’t mind, he had already experienced what it was like to go to the cinema, and even to be kicked out of one. He bet Dudley, for all his bully attitude, had never been kicked out of one.

After that, of course, Harry was hungry again, so they went to eat dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

No matter how much time passed, apparently not even the years of a new impressionable childhood, some things never changed.

Ace was still a mostly easy going guy, which had come in handy to keep the conversation throughout the whole day to harmless and light topics —such as some shortcuts Marco knew at Hogwarts that wouldn’t amuse the professors at all if they knew a student had learned about them, or Ace’s mostly miserable summer so far, of which the only highlight was terrifying Dudley with supposed attempts at doing magic.

Marco was puzzled at the lack of letters from Ace’s friends, as he had noticed, while observing him —he had wanted to see more than just what Ace showed him when they met— that Ace seemed to have made very good friends. Loyal enough to blindly charge with him in pursuit of a dangerous Death Eater —because even if they had been wrong, they had believed Severus was after the stone, and as far as wizards went Severus _was_ dangerous— when most people would have turned and ran the other way at the mere thought of it. It was strange, to say the least.

Marco was distracted from his thoughts by an elderly woman who was glaring disapprovingly at him. He smiled at her and she huffed, turning back to the man he presumed to be her husband. Some things _had_ changed. Ace’s manners were still nonexistent but now, instead of only glaring at him, people was glaring at Marco as well, because, as Ace was twelve, they assumed the man accompanying him had to be responsible for his education, and thus they scorned him for Ace’s lack of manners.

That was another thing that had changed considerably. Back then, practically no one would have dared to glare at them. The difference had been refreshing at some point, now it was just there.

“Oh, crap.”

That drew his attention back to Ace. Marco raised his eyebrows and said mockingly.

“Language.” Ace glared at him. “What’s the problem?”

“I forgot about that stupid dinner. Now there’s no way I can go to the Dursleys without being murdered or something,” Ace groaned, which would have been amusing if it wasn’t for how disgusting the situation behind that sentence was.

“You think they’ll be mad at you?”

Ace shrugged.

“Dunno, depends on how things go, probably.”

Marco had to admit he had forgotten about returning Ace to Privet Drive as well, but he saw no reason to say it out loud. It would mean unnecessary teasing, probably something involving his age —Ace had been awfully fond of those jokes— and wouldn’t change anything, either way.

“You’ll have to stay with me, then.”

Ace gave him a confused look before asking.

“You have a flat or something?”

“No, I was going to stay at a hotel.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ace snickered all the way from the elevator to the door of their room. Marco wasn’t amused. The woman at the reception had given him a suspicious look when he had asked for a room for two, and it had looked like she was tempted to call the cops until Ace started to babble happily about how Uncle Marco had brought him to London for his birthday, and wasn’t it cool they were going to the zoo tomorrow? That had calmed the woman considerably, and she had finally given Marco the key, having not moved to get it upuntil that point.

The brat had started laughing the moment they entered the elevator.

The laughter died, however, when upon entering the room they found it was already occupied. Sitting on one of the beds was a short creature with bulging green eyes and big, bat-like ears dressed in a pillow case.

_What the fuck is a house elf doing here?_

The answer to that question came soon enough, though Marco should probably have remembered Ace had absolutely no idea of what a house elf was or how house elves were used to being treated by wizards and how they behaved, and should have tried to handle the situation himself instead. Then again, the elf —Dobby, he introduced himself— seemed to be a fan of Harry Potter, something Marco was going to remind Ace of in the future, and probably wouldn’t have listened much to him.

Still, commenting on the house elf’s family hadn’t been the smartest of movements —even if they had to be assholes to treat Dobby the way they did. Marco had had to pull him away from the wall and hold him to prevent any further attempt to punish himself. Or assault Ace in gratitude for acting like a decent human being. Dobby didn’t seem to have a very firm grip on his emotions.

Then Dobby revealed why he was here, and Marco saw the disaster forming before the first sentence was complete.

“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

He almost flinched. You didn’t tell Portgas D. Ace what to do unless he _really_ respected you, and even then you had to be careful. You didn’t insinuate Portgas D. Ace wasn’t strong enough to defend himself from a threat, especially if you weren’t willing to disclose what said threat was. And you didn’t reveal to Portgas D. Ace that the reason he hadn’t received any letters from his friends was because you had been intercepting them.

At that point, Marco had been forced to let go of Dobby and go hold Ace back instead, because Ace was more than ready to murder Dobby right then.

As _anybody_ could have told Dobby, his little attempt to use Ace’s friends’ letters to blackmail him into agreeing to not going to Hogwarts didn’t work, only enraging Ace even more.

Strangely enough, Dobby just looked at them, nodded his head, and disappeared.

Marco let go of a now confused and considerably calmer Ace, who looked up at him.

“What was that?”

“No idea.”

They had just decided who would sleep in what bed when the flapping wings of an owl drew their attention, and Marco went to the room’s window to let the bird in. It flew straight to Ace, dropped an official looking letter on his head and left.

Still puzzled, Ace opened the letter, and his expression turned into one of rage as he scanned the words written there.

“That bastard!” he growled, crumpled the letter and threw it to the floor, stomping on it before plopping down angrily on his bed.

Marco bent down to pick the discarded letter and opened it. He cursed. _Fucking elf_.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve  minutes past nine._

_As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C)._

_We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy._

_Enjoy your holidays!_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mafalda Hopkirk_

_IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE_

_Ministry of Magic_

“Whatever he did, they’re going to murder me,” Ace growled and, judging by what he had learned of the Dursleys, Marco had to agree.

“We’ll have to find a way to prevent that, then.” Crumpling the offending letter again and throwing it over his shoulder, Marco walked to the bed where Ace was lying and sat next to him.

Ace turned his head to look at him over his shoulder, a hopeful expression on his face.

“I could stay with you the rest of the summer. It’s not like they would care.”

Marco blinked. Of course, that would be the easiest solution, or at least from Ace’s point of view. He shook his head.

“No, that wouldn’t work.”

Ace sat up and glared at him.

“Why not?”

“You know Arabella Figg?”

Ace was taken aback by the apparently random question, but answered.

“Yes, the Dursleys leave me with her when they’re going somewhere.”

“She’s a squib.”

“What’s that?” Of course Ace didn’t know, he didn’t seem to have put much effort into investigating the wizarding world —not that Marco was really surprised, as Ace had never been the type to sit in a library and read for hours.

“A person born to wizard parents without magic. She works for Albus and is keeping an eye on you.”

The explosion came immediately.

“What?! You mean she _could get me out of there_ but hasn’t?! That _bitch_!”

“Ace, calm down,” Marco interrupted before Ace could go on any further. At Ace’s glare, he elaborated. “There is a reason for that. Sort of. I don’t really agree, but I doubt anybody could convince Albus to the contrary.”

“What reason?” he asked suspiciously.

Marco sighed. There went the possibility of avoiding complicated conversations for today.

“Can we talk about it another time?” Knowing Ace, he hurried to continue before he could say anything. “It’s a long story, it’d be best if we solved this first.”

After some consideration, Ace very reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“So, basically, I can’t leave because the headmaster will know and come search for me?”

“Precisely.”

“And if you showed him you’re his phoenix? He trusts you, right?”

Marco almost grimaced. Yes, Albus would trust him to be around Ace then, but there were reasons why he hadn’t told him yet despite the fact Marco considered him a good friend.

“I’d rather leave that as a last resort.”

“Why?” Marco pretended not to notice the annoyed tone in Ace’s voice.

“Because Albus still hasn’t figured out how Voldemort managed to survive that night.”

Again, Ace looked disconcerted by the apparently random change of topic.

“So?”

“He has this habit of not telling people, even his allies, more than he believes they need to know, which generally is practically nothing. But he needs to talk to someone.”

Realization dawned on Ace’s face, and he grinned slightly.

“And that’s you, because you’re a bird and won’t tell anybody.”

Marco nodded.

“That guy’s after you, I’d rather know as much as possible about him.”

“Alright, then let’s not do that. You think we could convince Mrs. Figg to lie to Dumbledore and say I’m still there?” Ace didn’t seem too pleased by this idea, and he had practically growled her name. He wouldn’t be nice to her anytime in the future, it seemed.

“I don’t think so, she’s too loyal to Albus. But...” He smirked.

“What?” Ace asked, an interested expression on his face.

“I think I should talk to your relatives.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry Potter had never been more excited about going to his relatives’ house. As Marco parked in front of the house, Harry had to hold back a grin. He got out of the car, made his best attempt to look serious —though not apprehensive, he would never look that way before the Dursleys if he could help it— and headed for the door.

Marco leaned against the wall next to it and gestured for him to ring the bell. Harry did.

Harry had expected Aunt Petunia to open the door, and thus was surprised when the one who appeared was his uncle, whose face turned purple at an impressive speed even for him. Ace cursed mentally. Of course, today was a Saturday, he should have thought of it. On the other hand, that would make things easier.

“You...” the gleam in Uncle Vernon’s eyes was the closest thing to murderous Harry had ever seen in them, and he knew the only reason he hadn’t been grabbed and bodily dragged inside was the possibility of the neighbours seeing it. “Come in. Now!” Uncle Vernon growled and, when Harry didn’t make any move to obey, he seemed to disregard what others might think and reached forward to grab him.

A hand stopped his wrist and Uncle Vernon froze for the second it took Marco to come into view next to Harry.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Who are you?” Vernon asked, and then, as if burned, pulled his hand back. Marco let him. “Are you one of those freaks?!”

“Maybe,” Marco answered with a shrug. Most wizards would have been offended at being called that; Marco, however, didn’t seem to care. After all, Harry knew as pirates they had been called much worse.

“Get out of here! We don’t want your people in this house!”

Marco made an impressive show of shrugging in the most indifferent way he could.

“I don’t care, I want to talk to you.”

Uncle Vernon, seemingly forgetting his anger toward Harry for the moment, backed enough to slam the door shut. Or he would have if Marco hadn’t raised a leg and stopped it with his foot before the wood could move even an inch.

Uncle Vernon looked down at the sandaled foot that seemed to be holding the door in place with no effort —and Harry _knew_ it meant no effort for Marco to do that— and tried to close it again to no avail.

“Mr. Dursley,” Marco spoke calmly, and Harry had the impression he was trying to stay somewhat civil, “you can either let us enter or I can kick the door in. I wonder what your neighbours would think of such a display.”

Uncle Vernon glared up at Marco, and Harry had to force himself not to laugh at how ridiculous the sight was. Here was Vernon Dursley, big due mostly to his notorious overweight and his face still an unhealthy shade of purple, trying to intimidate Marco, who was taller, muscular and by far more imposing. Marco wasn’t even trying to look intimidating at this moment, eyes half-lidded in his trademark almost bored expression, but, after looking him up and down, Uncle Vernon decided to very ungraciously let go of the door and step back.

The disappointed look on his face told Harry he probably had tried to make Marco lose his balance when he let go of the door so suddenly.

“Hurry up, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I hadn't planned on Marco meeting the Dursleys so soon, but then I realized it was the only thing that could work, so here it is.
> 
> Also, I checked, August 1st, 1992 was a Saturday.
> 
> Here's a fanart drawn by FoxMii of Harry and Marco eating at the restaurant :D  
> 


	8. Summer plans

The tension in the kitchen could be cut with a knife, only accentuated by the very obvious glares the Dursleys were throwing at them. However, neither Harry nor Marco had ever cared much about such things, and Marco had blatantly ignored all the signals of clear disapproval and distaste from the family and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs without being invited to do so. Harry had decided to stand behind him, if only because as a short twelve years old he felt more intimidating that way.

The Dursleys, standing at the other side of the kitchen table, were trying to put up an intimidating front that didn’t fool anybody. Dudley and Aunt Petunia had been in the kitchen when they had arrived and, ignoring his mother’s order to get out of the house, Dudley had quite stupidly decided he would be safer hiding behind his father.

“What happened last night wasn’t Harry’s doing,” Marco finally broke the silence. Harry was startled, realizing this was the first time Marco had called him ‘Harry’ instead of ‘Ace’. It felt wrong, somehow, coming from Marco’s lips.

Uncle Vernon’s eyes narrowed on Harry.

“Oh, really? And how would you know?”

Ignoring him, Marco turned to look at a sour faced Aunt Petunia.

“You know why, don’t you?”

Everybody in the room turned to look at her, and it took Harry a moment to realize what Marco was talking about. He almost cursed out loud. Of course she knew, she was his mother’s sister, she had had to know students weren’t allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts. But then, why hadn’t she said anything whenever Dudley went to whine to her because Harry was ‘doing it’?

He had no time to ponder that as Aunt Petunia responded.

“He received the warning,” it wasn’t a question, which confirmed that she had known.

“What warning?” Uncle Vernon asked suspiciously.

“They can’t do magic outside of that place. They could be expelled if they do.”

For a moment it seemed like Uncle Vernon was about to yell at her for not saying it earlier, but then his face twisted into a gleeful smile that, in Harry’s experience, had never meant anything good.

“They can’t?” He chuckled, and Harry instinctively tensed, as he normally would have bolted out of the room whenever UncleVernon reacted like that. “He didn’t do it, you say?” he asked, and Marco nodded. Harry moved to the side to see Marco's face, and wasn’t surprised at the suspicious gleam in his blue eyes. “Then you can’t do anything!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed gleefully, the tension leaving his body all of a sudden. “If you do any of that freakish stuff they’ll think _he_ ,” he pointed at Harry, “did it and expel him!”

At that, both Dudley and Petunia relaxed considerably, and Harry was sure they were about to attempt to throw Marco out when, much to their surprise, Marco chuckled.

“What?” growled Uncle Vernon, clearly annoyed at the lack of effect his brilliant reasoning seemed to have had.

“Do you really think I need _magic_ to kill someone?”

The three Dursleys froze and then blanched.

“K-Kill?” Aunt Petunia was the first one to react, and she blindly reached for Dudley.

Harry couldn’t hold back a small smile. There, sitting in the kitchen chair as if he owned the place wasn’t the nice man that had spent his birthday with him yesterday. This was the First Division Commander, the big brother of the Whitebeard Pirates, the man willing to do _anything_ to protect his family. It was an impressive sight, how his face had hardened without his expression really changed, and Harry knew it was just as terrifying for those it was aimed at.

The Dursleys certainly didn’t look at ease at all now.

“You don’t really think I am going to stand by and allow you to do whatever you want to Harry, do you?” Marco stood up as he spoke and the next thing anyone knew, he was behind the Dursleys.

They jumped in place, startled, and Harry grinned. He had forgotten how fast people could move, and he couldn’t have followed Marco's movement if it weren’t for his dreams. Still, he had barely managed to do so, and realized how out of practice he really was.

“You did it!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed, bravado taking over again. “Now the boy will be expelled!”

“I didn’t apparate, if that’s what you mean. I just moved, that’s not magic.”

The Dursleys’ faces then were so priceless that Harry chuckled. Uncle Vernon, forgetting the situation in favour of rage, turned around to glare at him.

“What are you laughing at, boy?!”

This time it was easier to follow Marco’s movements as he came to stand next to him, probably because Harry had been expecting it. Uncle Vernon stumbled backwards.

“As I said before, you don’t want to do that.”

No one spoke for what seemed an eternity, the Dursleys huddled together in the middle of the kitchen and staring fearfully at Marco while Harry basked in the nice feeling that was revenge and the prospect of getting rid of their annoying behaviour.

Marco, meanwhile, walked to the counter and, much to everybody’s confusion, started to open drawers. Finally, he seemed to find what he had been looking for because he left one open and turned to look at them.

“Now, in case you get any stupid ideas before I leave, let me make one point clear.” He put his hand inside the drawer and brought out a knife. Harry’s eyes sparkled in anticipation, realizing what Marco was about to do.

Aunt Petunia gasped and Dudley flinched back when, without hesitation, Marco cut his wrist open with the knife. Then he turned his arm to them and Harry watched in fascination how the beautiful blue flames sprang to life and licked the skin, erasing the deep cut as if it had never been there.

Harry didn’t need to see his relatives’ faces to know they had dumbstruck expressions on, and Marco’s satisfied smirk only confirmed it. Marco walked to the sink, cleaned the knife and went back to the table, where he sat again in the chair he had vacated moments ago.

“Now that we’re clear, let’s talk.”

“About what?” Uncle Vernon growled, and he didn’t sound so sure of himself anymore.

“About Harry’s summer, of course.”

“You can take him, for all we care.”

“That’s the problem,” Marco leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared at the family still standing together at the same place, “you know he _has_ to live here, or he wouldn’t have been brought here in the first place.” That caught Harry’s attention, and he suspected it might be related to the reason why Mrs. Figg was keeping an eye on him. Marco would have a lot of questions to answer once this was over.

“Then?” asked Aunt Petunia, who seemed to have recovered somewhat now that the man before her, whom no doubt she thought was some deranged psychopath, didn’t show any signs of going to murder them.

“He will have to sleep here. And spend some more time in the house, I guess, but for the most part he will be with me.”

Harry grinned. They had talked about this beforehand. Marco would be renting a flat in Surrey until the school term started to make things more comfortable than having to stay at a hotel for the month.

“B-But what will the neighbours say? They will _see_ you!” she exclaimed, far too outraged in Harry’s opinion about that, seeing as how their lives had just been basically threatened. She had always worried far too much about what other people would think.

Marco shrugged, and then smiled wryly at them.

“They won’t see me, of course. I’ll meet Harry far enough from here that they won’t notice anything, and leave him also far enough. To them it will look like Harry spends as much time away from here as possible.” Which wasn’t different from before. The Dursleys knew, Harry knew, and so they nodded curtly. They didn’t have a choice. “You don’t have to worry about his food —not that you were doing a great job there anyway— or anything else, I’ll take care of it.” Uncle Vernon, unsurprisingly, didn’t have any problem with that point. “ _But_ you’ll be taking off the lock on Stefan’s cage.”

“The bird?!” Vernon boomed, incensed again by what he thought to be outrageous.

“Yes, the bird. I am going to get rid of that damn lock one way or another, but I thought it’d be better if you knew.”

“But the neighbours...” was, unsurprisingly, Aunt Petunia’s main complaint to that demand.

Marco surprised even Harry with his answer.

“Taking care of animals is supposed to help rehabilitate people. Tell them they recommended Harry should have a pet at that _institution_ he attends during the school year.”

Harry looked at him.

“Have you been reading on psychology or something?”

“I have a lot of free time.”

 

* * *

 

 

After the extremely annoying conversation with the people who were supposed to be Ace’s relatives, Marco and Ace left the house again and spent most of the day searching for a flat he could rent.

It had to be somewhere he could start to live in immediately, and the only real requisite he had —aside from it being reasonably habitable— was that it had to have enough space for some training. Because Ace needed to train his fighting skills and Marco would make sure he did. It would be best if they did it inside closed doors, just in case someone saw them if they trained outside and decided to call the cops, thinking he was beating Ace up or something.

They had decided to keep Ace’s new things at the flat —Ace had said his cousin was stupid enough to rip them if he decided he wanted to annoy him. That day they only had time to go out and eat dinner before they had to go back to the Dursleys, where Marco made a point of stopping the car at the door and wait long enough to glare at Petunia when she opened the door before leaving. He didn't intent to show up here again, but he thought a reminder wouldn't hurt, and he happened to know that Arabella Figg was ill and wouldn't be watching.

Ace had said he would write to his friends that night and explain the whole Dobby fiasco, and had asked him if he could accompany Stefan to make sure ‘that damn house elf’ didn’t intercept the letters again. So he flew into Ace’s bare and depressing room later that night in his smaller phoenix form and waited with Stefan for the letters to be ready. He stole one of the chocolate chips Ace had bought earlier that afternoon before leaving with Stefan.

Dobby didn’t attempt anything, and Marco waited outside as Stefan delivered the letters to both Ron and Hermione, who were immensely relieved when she arrived and practically hugged her when they saw her.

Ace was asleep by the time Marco accompanied Stefan back into the room, and the answering letters —Hermione’s was so thick it was a miracle the envelope didn’t burst— were left on the desk.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Harry hurried out of number four without so much as a glance back and tried not to run to the place he had agreed to meet at with Marco. They went to a small cafe that wasn’t close to his house —Harry remembered he had ran from there once when he was six after raiding three of the tables outside for food— and ate a copious breakfast before going grocery shopping, because Marco had no food in his flat yet.

Harry was ashamed to admit that, despite having thought about it various times during the school year, he had never actually gotten around to training, and thus was more than eager to start the moment Marco mentioned it. Marco taunted him throughout the morning for his abysmal physical shape and, as much as he hated it, Harry could do nothing but growl. Because Marco was right and he had barely managed to do a miserable job and had been exhausted by the time they stopped to eat lunch.

When, after that, Marco dropped a book on the table before him, Harry groaned. Ignoring him, Marco tapped the cover of the book. Harry looked down at it and read the title: _A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions_.

“That’s a magic book,” he said.

“Very perceptive,” Marco deadpanned. “You’ll read it while you’re at the Dursleys. Mark any spell you think would help you fight, _in any way_ , and copy the instructions here.” He placed a notebook and a pen before Harry, and Harry directed an appreciative look at them before answering. After a year stuck working with quills and parchment, he had developed a great love for paper and pen.

“I can’t do magic,” he reminded Marco.

“That’s why you’ll copy them instead of practicing. This way, when you get back to Hogwarts you’ll have a list of spells to get started with.”

After the Stone fiasco last year, Harry wasn’t going to argue that he was in serious need of training, especially if, as it seemed, he had a madman after his head.

“You can do magic?” He asked, curious.

“No, but I’ve seen enough of it done to help. Any more stupid questions?” Marco asked, though he was clearly amused.

“Yeah. Where’d you get the book?”

“The library.”

“I bet madam Pince doesn’t know you borrowed it,” Harry mused, thinking of how the librarian would have a heart attack if she learned that one of her precious books was now outside of the school.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, what’s the deal with me having to live at the Dursleys’ and Mrs. Figg watching over me?”

Marco grimaced. He didn’t want to hide anything from Ace, but he wasn’t looking forward to the temper tantrum Ace would throw when he heard the story.

“You’re not going to like it.”

And he explained about the prophecy that marked him as Voldemort’s equal, how Voldemort had tried to kill him because of that, Albus’ now proved theory that —due to a still unexplained reason— Voldemort wasn’t gone and the subsequent decision to place Harry Potter with his only living family, where the protection from his mother’s sacrifice would keep him safe.

As expected, Ace didn’t take the news well. A good half hour of violence against the room’s furniture —that Marco suspected he would have to pay for— and an impressive array of curses a twelve years old _shouldn’t_ know later, Ace was calm enough to just glare at anything that entered his visual field, with his arms crossed and sitting on the now  knocked over couch.

“And no one was going to tell me that I’m freaking _destined_ to kill that bastard?”

“Albus wants to give you the chance for a normal childhood,” Marco explained with a grimace. That was a point where he didn’t agree at all with Albus.

“Is that why you want to train me?” Ace grumbled.

“That, and because I hate to see you so weak.”

As expected, Ace’s bad mood resulted in him launching himself at Marco in a doomed attempt to beat him to a pulp.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry sat on his bed reading one of the books Marco had borrowed from the school library, the notebook resting next to him, a handful of pages already covered in the instructions for the spells he had chosen.

He raised his head when he heard the telltale flapping of wings that announced the arrival of an owl, and grimaced when a bird entered through his open window too fast and hit the floor, sliding across the floorboards before coming to a halt near the door.

Harry stood up and approached Ron’s old and clumsy owl.

“You really need to retire, Errol,” he muttered as he crouched down to untie the letter Errol was now offering him, and then Errol went to join Stefan and steal her food while Harry read Ron’s letter.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had fallen asleep on the couch right after eating lunch, and Harry decided to get some more spells written in his notebook. He would have preferred to train a little, but he hurt everywhere and he didn’t want to do something that could wake Marco up. After all, the reason Marco was now tired was that he had spent the night awake to accompany Stefan to Ron’s home with his answer.

Ron had written to him last night to invite him to go with his family to Diagon Alley, and then spend the remainder of the summer together. Harry had wanted to accept, but had waited until he could talk to Marco, feeling bad because they wouldn’t see each other while he was at Ron’s home, and that would be a couple of weeks. However, as Marco had pointed out, it wasn’t as if they wouldn’t see each other at Hogwarts. So Harry had accepted the invitation and would meet both Ron’s family and Hermione at Gringotts next Wednesday.

Marco had said he had some errands to run at Diagon Alley and, though they couldn’t go together, he would try to be around the same area Harry went to just in case. When Harry had asked what could go wrong, Marco had raised his eyebrows knowingly and said ‘you could be mobbed by fans’. That hadn’t ended up well.

Harry had also received ‘homework’ for the two next weeks, two books basic enough that he could explain them to his friends as wanting to be a little more prepared after what had happened last year. The books, however, weren’t from the library —because Hermione would undoubtedly notice and accuse him of stealing them when _he_ hadn’t done it— and instead were part of the collection of magical books Marco had accumulated over the years, mostly out of curiosity. Those two had been kept at a storage unit somewhere in London with some of the other stuff he owned. Marco had his stuff spread all over the world, though it was mainly in England.

The physical training would be harder to do, however, as there was a limit to how much he could pass for ‘to stay in shape for Quidditch’, and last year Harry had got the feeling wizards weren’t keen on physical exercise at all. He would have to deal with weird looks, probably.

Harry pulled out his list of school books again. It had arrived yesterday morning, and Marco, upon reading it, had burst out laughing. Much to Harry’s consternation, Marco had refused to tell him what was so amusing about the —he guessed— unusually long list, stating he would know soon enough. He would bet it had something to do with Lockhart’s books, as there were far too many of those listed and the titles suggested they all were for Defence Against the Dark Arts, especially as most of the others looked no different from last year’s books.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry should have known things had been going too well.

He had gone with Marco until they were near the Leaky Cauldron, where Marco had told him to go in first and that he would follow later —Harry had almost asked how he would find him among the crowd that was bound to be shopping, but remembered that little ability called haki just in time to save himself giving Marco something else to tease him with— and there Harry had crossed to the alley and headed straight to Gringotts, where he met first Hermione and her parents and then Ron and his family. Mr. Weasley seemed delighted at the chance to meet muggles, much to Hermione’s parents puzzlement and slight embarrassment, and the Weasleys and Harry left them momentarily to go to their vaults.

Harry felt horrible when he saw how little money the Weasleys had and, when Mrs. Weasley was distracted, made use of his passable stealth and the distraction Fred and George unwittingly provided to slip some sickles into the pocket where she had placed the money —there had been only one Galleon in the Weasleys' vault, so those would have been noticed— before the group divided and he went with Ron and Hermione to explore for an hour.

When they all met in Flourish and Blotts at the agreed upon time, they were surprised to find there were so many people trying to enter the shop that a crowd was gathered outside, all because the author of the ridiculous amount of books they needed for Defence that year was signing books at the shop. Once they managed to get in, Harry thought he saw a familiar head standing taller than most of the crowd and turned to see Marco leaning unobtrusively against one wall. Marco, who apparently had seen him as well, smirked in his direction.

Harry blinked, confused, but had no time to think about the meaning of the gesture. He was dragged by Ron and Hermione to get his Charms book amongst the excited crowd, and then they went to join the line where the rest of the group was to see Lockhart. Mrs. Weasley seemed very excited about it, and even Hermione was looking forward to meet the man, which made Harry wonder who, exactly, was Gilderoy Lockhart.

Unfortunately, he got his answer.

Lockhart spotted him, and Harry was subjected to experience the meaning of ‘absolute idiot’ in the most annoying of ways. Lockhart dragged him to the front, and the photographer covering the event practically went mad taking pictures of them. Harry saw Marco, to the side, covering his mouth, probably to prevent his laughter from drawing attention. He was sure his murderous glare would contrast considerably with Lockhart’s dazzling smile in every one of the pictures.

Then Lockhart dropped the bomb.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving his hands. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time! When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography,” Marco’s laughter seemed practically impossible to hold back at that moment, and Harry _growled._ No one noticed _,_ “—which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge— He had no idea, that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

That _bastard_. He had known. Harry was going to murder that damn pineapple head for this. Marco had known he would have this _idiot_ for a teacher, and he might even have known about _this_ , but hadn’t warned him. Harry was going to murder Marco —who now was half hiding behind a shelf as he held onto it— in the most painful way he could find.

Harry barely managed to escape from attention after having received the whole collection of Lockhart’s books —which he gave to Ron’s sister, Ginny— when the moment went from horrible to what could only be described as the universe messing with him.

They were faced with Draco Malfoy and his father.

The only positive part of the whole visit to the book shop was Arthur Weasley tackling Lucius Malfoy against a bookshelf, the books held there falling onto both of them. Mr. Weasley’s technique might have been lacking, but the surprise factor and the extreme satisfaction the scene itself brought Harry made him want to clap. He held back the impulse.

Then, of course, as Harry’s shopping trip couldn’t end in a positive note, he was introduced to Floo powder, and ended up falling face first into the Weasleys’ sitting room.


	9. The disastrous start of term

Harry loved the Burrow. It was Ron’s house, a chaotic place that couldn’t be more different to the sickeningly pristine number four at Privet Drive. This place screamed ‘home’ from every little detail, and it made Harry feel much more at ease than he ever did at number four. The Weasleys also were a far cry better to live with than the Dursleys, and if Harry hadn’t remembered his life as Ace and hadn’t spent the last couple of weeks with Marco, he would even say they were the best people he had ever lived with.

He spent most of his time with Ron and the twins, and they played Quidditch almost every day —they only had to be careful not to fly too high to avoid being seen from the muggle village close by. Harry had the impression Ginny would have liked to join, but she became extremely nervous and prone to accidents around him. No one said it, but they all knew it was because she was his fan. It was awkward but, Harry knew, it would have been much worse if they had been a couple of years older. He really hoped she would get over her crush by then.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over him, something he wasn’t sure how to respond to. The closest thing to a mother figure he had ever had was Makino, but he hadn’t usually seen her often and she had known better than to scold him for doing ‘dangerous things’. Mr. Weasley, meanwhile, took the chance to ask as many questions about muggles as possible, questions to which Harry didn’t even know half of the answers.

Of everything Harry learned at the Burrow, what he liked the most was de-gnoming the garden. It may be a chore, but it was a _fun_ chore, and throwing the gnomes as far away from the garden as possible reminded him oddly of the fights against the marines.

Harry welcomed the end of the vacation with mixed feelings.

On one hand, he had enjoyed his stay at the Burrow, and it had been a different way to learn more about the wizarding world, but on the other that meant he was going back to Hogwarts, and would see Marco too, as well. Besides, Ron would be there, and so would be Hermione. Harry decided to look at the start of the school year positively. He may not be a great fan of classes, but this year promised to be interesting, even if there would be no murderous dark wizards after his head to liven things up.

 

* * *

 

 

They had gone to King’s Cross in Mr. Weasley’s magically modified Ford Anglia, an experience far better than when Harry went to the station last year with the Dursleys. Even if they hadn’t been able to fly. Because the car _could_ fly, something Mrs. Weasley didn’t like at all and had absolutely forbidden her husband to do, much to Harry’s disappointment.

By the time they reached the station there were only minutes left before the train left, and the group rushed to the wall that was the entrance to platform 9¾. Ron and Harry were the last ones to enter, and when they rushed to the wall, they crashed into it, sending the two of them and the contents of their carts —including an indignant Stefan— to the floor.

Any further attempt to cross the wall failed and the time for the train to leave passed. By then they had attracted so much attention that Harry decided to go wait for Ron’s parents by the car, just in case anyone decided to call the cops or something to deal with the two crazy children apparently trying to get past a brick wall.

A possible reason why they hadn’t been able to cross the portal came to Harry’s mind, and he really wished he could wring that damned house elf’s neck. The thought was soon chased from his mind, however, when Ron had one of the most wonderful ideas Harry had ever heard.

“Harry!” Ron exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”

Harry stopped for the barest of moments before the exact meaning of what Ron had thought sunk in. He grinned from ear to ear.

And that is how he got to fly in the enchanted car to Hogwarts.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had been waiting at the Great Hall, perched on Albus’ throne-like chair like last year to see Ace enter the cavernous room.

He should have known better

If anybody had been paying attention, they would have noticed how Dumbledore’s phoenix released what looked suspiciously like a resigned sigh when a frantic Hermione Granger and the unusually serious Weasley twins approached the head table.

Neither Ace nor Ron had boarded the train, despite having been right behind the twins when they entered the station.

Marco closed his eyes and tried to locate Ace’s presence past the hundreds of students that were closer to him. There he was, next to Ron.

At the exact location where the Whomping Willow was.

He jumped into the air and flew towards the open doors. He noticed Severus leaving his seat right before exiting the bustling Great Hall.

As he exited the school, he felt the boys’ presences move away from the violent tree, and a weight raised from his shoulders. Spotting them dragging their trunks to the main entrance, he was about to dive in their direction and thump Ace over the head with a wing when he had a different idea and, instead, moved to fly in circles above them, close enough to be able to hear what they said without being spotted unless they looked directly up at him.

They approached the windows.

 “Hang on...” He head Ace say to Ron. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table... Where’s Snape?”

 “Maybe he’s ill!” Ron answered, sounding hopeful.

Had he been in his human form, Marco would have laughed at them, because neither of them had noticed the dark figure now standing behind them.

“Maybe he’s left,” theorized Ace, more wistful than hopeful, “because he missed out on the Defence Against the Dark Arts job again!”

“Or he might have been sacked!” guessed Ron, getting carried away. “I mean, everyone hates him-”

“Or maybe,” Severus finally spoke, “he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.”

Severus made them follow him inside, and that was when Marco flew to be next to them. Severus only spared him a glance, but the hot glare Ace directed at him told him that he had realized Marco had been watching and hadn’t warned them of Severus’ presence.

Marco trilled in what Ace had already learned to discern as mocking in this form, and knew the only reason Ace didn’t try to punch him was Severus’ presence two steps ahead.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, did you have fun?” Marco asked that night, sitting in one of the desks of the abandoned classroom they had turned into their meeting place.

“Yeah,” Harry said, munching on the custard tart that was probably the one Professor Dumbledore had been talking about when he took Snape away from his own office and left them with Professor McGonagall. It was true that she had summoned Ron and Harry a self-refilling plate of sandwiches so they could eat dinner, but Harry had only eaten until Ron had been done, and then they had left Snape’s creepy office and went to their common room.

He had felt hungry soon after, and had grinned when he arrived to the classroom and saw Marco had brought him food. Harry was no longer surprised that Marco always seemed to find him, now that he knew who he was he had realized with haki that was easy for him to do it, and he had obviously expected that Harry would sneak out of the Gryffindor Tower as soon as the common room was empty.

“But not as much as I expected, really. The trip got boring after the first hour, and then the damn tree was annoying. Ron’s wand broke, too, and I don’t think his family can pay for a new one after having to buy all those Lockhart books.” At this, Harry paused, and glared venomously at Marco when he remembered the incident at the book store.

Marco smirked at him.

“Oh, you’ll have a lot more of Lockhart to deal with, don’t worry.”

“Is he as bad as I think he is?” Harry asked with some trepidation. The impression he had got was that the man was a bumbling idiot, but he _had_ written all those books and it didn’t seem like anybody had accused him of making them up. And Mrs. Weasley was a great fan of him, he doubted her sons —who were sick of hearing about him, especially the twins— wouldn’t have mentioned something like that.

Marco’s expression, however, told him otherwise.

“Worse.”

Harry groaned.

 

* * *

 

 

As the howler sent by Mrs. Weasley screamed at him and Ron for what had happened yesterday, Harry glared around, daring anyone to laugh. Unfortunately, people didn’t seem to notice or care about his glare, because they snickered or all out laughed and pointed at them all over the Great Hall. Ron was trying to unsuccessfully hide beneath the table, or so it seemed by how low he had sunk into his bench; Hermione’s expression made it clear she thought the howler was more than deserved; further down the table, Percy Weasley looked as if he wanted to share Hermione’s sentiment, but at the same time was embarrassed of the fact the howler was his mother’s, even if it wasn’t directed at him; Fred and George looked quite indifferent, and Harry was sure they had received many scoldings like this one in the past, though he doubted there had been a lot of howlers —he didn’t remember any from last year. He couldn’t see Ginny anywhere —he guessed that was good, the girl would probably feel mortified that this had happened her first day of school— but who he _could_ see was the asshole of a phoenix shaking with what to him was obvious laughter, perched on Dumbledore’s chair.

He was sure Marco had seen this coming, as he didn’t usually attend meals in the Great Hall.

From there, Harry’s day only went from bad to worse. A great portion of the blame —though not all of it— fell upon Gilderoy Lockhart.

Harry had planned to avoid Lockhart like a plague outside of Defence class, as both his brief meeting with him and Marco’s input told him he really didn’t want to interact with the celebrity any more than strictly necessary, so of course Lockhart intercepted him even before the first class of the year could start.

Lockhart believed he had given Harry a _taste for publicity_ and now wanted to _help him._ Oh, and he thought _he_ had more reason to be famous that Harry —because it seemed winning a magazine award meant more than defeating a dark lord. Not that Harry wanted to be famous, being a hero wasn’t nearly as fun or nice as being a wanted criminal, but to have that buffoon think he wanted to be like him...

Harry really missed his Mera Mera no Mi. He would have loved to set those ridiculous turquoise robes Lockhart favoured on fire. Maybe he should research some fire spells.

During the Herbology class, where they had been working with the Mandrakes, Harry had fantasized about locking the annoying man inside the greenhouse and make the plants cry. When said plants were mature, of course, so he wouldn’t wake up after only having been unconscious for some hours. Meeting Justin Finch-Fletchley, who worked with him, Ron and Hermione for the duration of the class and was a big fan of Lockhart, had done nothing to calm Harry’s bad mood.

They had a reprieve during Transfiguration —despite Ron’s bad mood due to his broken and useless wand— because Professor McGonagall didn’t stand for nonsense and had them concentrating on their work. Which was hard, but a welcome distraction for Harry’s mind.

After lunch, however, any brightness the meal had brought to Harry’s day was absolutely destroyed by a small first year Gryffindor boy. A fan of Harry, who wanted to have a photo with him and then expected him to sign it for him. Of course, Draco Malfoy overheard. And, _of course_ , Lockhart overheard the taunting that ensued and misinterpreted it to suit his delusions.

Harry took it as a personal achievement that he hadn’t started punching people right there. If he had to be honest with himself, the only reason he hadn’t resorted to violence was how utterly ridiculous and embarrassing the whole affair was.

To top it off, that happened right before the first Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the year. By the time they left the classroom, Harry was thinking wistfully of the stuttering mess of a dark wizard undercover with a dark lord stuck at the back of his head that had taught them the previous year.

The word ‘disaster’ didn’t even begin to cover what had happened in that classroom.

Harry had known Lockhart was an egocentric, he just hadn’t realized _how much_ that word described him. The first ten minutes into the class, it became apparent the subject should be called Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Gilderoy Lockhart, instead of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Harry felt sorry for the poor parchment that had been wasted on writing the quizzes the supposed professor handed them about himself.

Then, to shoot down any possible, minuscule doubt that might linger that, despite his absolutely obnoxious behaviour, Lockhart might be a competent wizard, he let loose a bunch of small, mostly harmless but mischievous pixies on the classroom and failed spectacularly to contain them. He was _disarmed_ by a pixie, and then proceeded to cower like the useless idiot Harry had already known he was.

And then, Lockhart dumped the task of recapturing the pixies onto Harry, Ron and Hermione, the three unfortunate students that were last to flee the classroom as soon as the bell rang.

Harry could admit he had had fun capturing the little buggers —Hermione might have stuck for harmless methods like Freezing charms, but he had let his imagination fly in ways that were frowned upon by his rule-abiding friend— but the prospect of having to deal with Lockhart for who knew how long was so depressing it dampened the experience.

 

* * *

 

 

“And Hermione is his _fan_!” Harry exclaimed later that afternoon, ignoring the fact that Marco was laughing so hard he was about to fall from the desk he was sitting on. “Hermione! She’s supposed to be the smartest in our year, but she thinks that he’s the greatest thing ever! The man’s a joke!”

Marco got himself under control enough to sit upright on the desk and grinned at him.

“If you think that’s bad, you should see the teachers. Lockhart thinks he’s the best at everything and is giving them advice in their own fields. I thought Severus would kill him earlier when he offered to ‘give him some tips’ to make the potions for the infirmary faster.”

Harry snorted. If he hadn’t seen Lockhart in action himself, he would have thought he couldn’t be that much of an idiot.

“But, seriously, why did Dumbledore hire him? He must’ve noticed he’s useless straight away.”

Marco shrugged.

“The position is cursed.” Harry blinked. _What?_ “Or so they say,” Marco clarified. “The thing is it’s been a long time since a teacher lasted more than one year. Not many people apply to the position anymore.”

“He had no other choice, then?” That made sense, Harry guessed. It was depressing all the same.

“Look at the bright side,” Marco said, and Harry blinked. “He won’t be here next year.”

Harry would have grinned, except that he still had a whole year of Lockhart ahead before the rumoured curse would take effect.

Marco looked at the clock hanging to one side of the chalkboard, which showed it was almost time for dinner.

“It’s a bit late. Come here tomorrow right after classes and I’ll show you something.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Ace crashed through a wall, his latest murder attempt failed like all the previous ones. This time, however, he hadn’t made it even to the captain’s cabin._

_“Sorry, brat, but Pops needs to rest today.”_

_Said brat glared up at the bored-looking man that had kicked him through the wall, and his frown deepened when he noticed_ _Marco_ _didn’t look tired at all, while Ace —something to which he wouldn’t admit— could feel his back hurt from the impact._

_Marco approached him and offered him a hand._

_“Come on, I bet you need to rest too.”_

_Growling, Ace shoved the hand away, jumped to his feet —his legs sent up a pained protest— and stalked away._

 

* * *

 

 

Harry stared at the empty wall in front of which Marco, in his small phoenix form, had stopped and had now moved back the way they had come just to fly forward again and repeat the motion. Harry had done as Marco had said, and they had immediately left their classroom, Marco transforming so as to not be spotted in his human form, and headed for another corridor that was on the seventh floor as well, where they were now standing with a painting of some weird wizard trying to teach ballet to a group of trolls behind them.

Harry jumped when, the third time Marco moved back and then forward across the small stretch of hallway, a door appeared out of nowhere.

“Woah!”

Marco gestured to it with one wing, and Harry walked to the door, taking the handle to open it. He walked in cautiously, and was surprised at the sight of a spacious room, empty save for a row of targets at the farthest end, placed at different distances from the entrance.

The door closed behind him and there was a flash of blue light before Marco regained his human form.

“Welcome to the Room of Requirement,” he said, a small smirk on his face.

“What’s this place?”

“A room that turns into whatever you need at the moment.” Before Harry could ask any further, however, Marco said. “You have a lot of spells to learn. If you show decent progress, I’ll explain how to use this room.”

Harry frowned.

“When you say anything...?”

“I mean practically anything. It can’t create food or drinks, but you can ask it for almost anything else. Like this.” And a comfortable looking armchair appeared out of nowhere behind Marco, who sat down on it.

Harry gaped. Ignoring him, Marco took out the notebook where Harry had written all the spells he thought useful and had given to him yesterday.

“You should start with the shield charm, it’ll be useful if you can’t dodge. And your reflexes still suck.”

Harry glared at him.

 

* * *

 

 

The Room of Requirement, Harry had soon decided, was one of his favourite places in the whole castle. It could change into all kinds of scenarios for both practicing spells and physical training, it could become big enough that it was hard to see one end of the room when you stood at the other, it could create as many obstacles as one wished it to, even change midway through an action and catch someone off guard. Marco had taken to have it sprout random columns and trees that, though annoying, were forcing Harry to keep his senses alert at all times, even when he was training alone with Marco only watching instead of fighting him.

Between classes, training sessions, time with his friends, avoiding Lockhart —which Harry had taken to doing with a passion— and forcing himself not to punch an overenthusiastic Colin Creevey —the first year who had asked for his photo the first day— who had become disturbingly obsessed with him, he had barely any time to spare, and he had been eagerly looking forward to the weekend and the chance to sleep in and just be able to lie lazily in bed for a while. So, of course, he was denied it.

An overenthusiastic Oliver Wood, who seemed to have become even more obsessed than last year on winning the Quidditch Cup, woke him so early it would have earned Wood a sound kick to the head if Harry hadn’t been so busy trying to maintain his eyes open long enough to understand why he had been woken up in the first place. Quidditch practice. Harry had forgotten how fanatical Wood was about that.

His morning was just made better by his annoying little fan —who apparently forsake sleep in order to stalk Harry— deciding to tag along.

And then there was Draco Malfoy.

There always seemed to be Draco Malfoy to make a bad day worse. Ron and Hermione were there by now, but it probably would have been better if they hadn’t. Because when the Slytherin team showed up at the Quidditch pitch to train, too, they discovered Malfoy had bought his way into said team with new brooms —and wasn’t that pathetic? But Harry couldn’t even fit in a decent insult for how fast things developed— there was an argument on who had the right to train then. Of course, Ron and Hermione couldn’t stay away, not that Harry would have in their position, and unsurprisingly their arrival developed into an insult match with Malfoy, only that this one was worse than usual. Harry didn’t need to know the context of the word ‘mudblood’ to realize it was a bad one, the word itself and everybody’s reaction told him that much. Ron tried to curse Malfoy, his broken wand malfunctioned —as it always did now— and the spell backfired on him instead, making him puke slugs; the Slytherins laughed and Harry punched Malfoy right on the face.

He had already been in a bad mood, and a bad mood combined with being pissed off meant Harry didn’t care about trying to avoid fights and the likes.

As they left to take Ron to Hagrid’s hut, Harry shoved Colin Creevey —he at least didn’t punch the brat, he took that as a great proof of self control— out of the way when he tried to take a picture of Ron’s condition. Creevey’s hurt eyes couldn’t have affected him less.

Hermione worried about him getting a detention for punching Malfoy, but she shouldn’t have. The Slytherin team told Snape, but the whole Gryffindor team denied it had happened, someone got McGonagall while they protested and it developed into an argument between the two professors. Harry finally got out of the situation with only some missing points. He decided to forgive Wood for waking him so early after that. It would have been much better if then McGonagall hadn’t proceeded to tell both him and Ron that they would serve their detentions that night. Harry really envied Ron having to clean trophies for Filch, because _he_ would be forced to _help Lockhart answer fan mail_. Harry didn’t miss Snape’s amused smirk, and he was in such a bad mood after that —and doing a great effort to avoid yelling at McGonagall— that he didn’t realize until he was halfway through lunch that the horrid detention meant he wouldn’t be able to spend it with Marco as usual. That soured his mood further.

The only highlight of the morning had been hearing Hagrid —good natured and nice Hagrid— tell off Hermione and her admiration of Lockhart by saying what Harry had already known, that he was the only one who applied for the Defence Against the Dark Arts job. It was good to know Dumbledore hadn’t gone completely senile, but the fact that he had decided to give Lockhart the position at all still bothered him. They would probably have learnt more having that period free.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry left Lockhart’s horribly self-absorbed office feeling a mix of relieved and creeped out. Relieved because that horrible torture was over —and he might have not quite accidentally written wrong more than one address out of spite— but creeped out because of the reason he had been able to leave; he probably would have been grateful to the mysterious voice that apparently only he had been able to hear —Lockhart was probably too distracted by his own prattle— if it hadn’t been hissing about ripping, tearing and killing. Not exactly what you wanted to hear in a chilling voice that came out of nowhere.

Outside of the room, he had half expected to find Marco waiting for him, a teasing comment at the ready, and was disappointed to note there was no man or phoenix there. He would never admit to it, but he would have felt better if Marco had accompanied him to his common room.

Going there at midnight through the deserted corridors with the threat of a disembodied murderous creature around wasn’t encouraging. He managed to reign in his childish impulse to run all the way there —which would probably have drawn attention, even if it wasn’t from whatever he had heard— and instead moved as silently as possible through the corridors, straining his ears to catch the smallest of sounds, body tense and ready to fight and his wand clutched in his right hand.


	10. The danger in the school

Harry's busy schedule —made only that much worse by Lockhart’s strengthening insistence on interfering in his life and Harry’s consequent increasing efforts to avoid him— as well as what he would later dub teenage stupidity, resulted in Harry forgetting to mention the voice to Marco the next day. He soon forgot about it, as he didn’t hear it again for the following few weeks.

Harry’s training had begun to pay off and now he could cast all the basic defensive spells that for some reason weren’t taught in first year and, though nowhere near his previous life’s twelve year old self, he now was reasonably sure he could easily beat in a hand to hand fight anyone up to fourth year in the school. Most fifth years too, but a lot of those had the advantage of growth spurts over him. Harry still couldn’t believe he had been so stupid as to neglect his physical abilities last year, and his fitness had suffered the consequences.

Ron was still messing up every single spell he tried —Harry thought he should ask for a new wand, he doubted his parents would deny him it given the results this one was having, even if they would have some trouble getting the money— and Hermione was still convinced Lockhart was the best professor ever, it didn’t matter that every class managed to surpass the previous one’s show of incompetence. Marco insisted on Harry telling him every detail of said classes, and laughed his ass off alongside Harry who, once away from Lockhart’s annoying presence, had to admit his antics were amusing —even if he really _didn’t_ enjoy being dragged into them to play the part of whoever Lockhart tried to convince them he had saved whenever he insisted on enacting the supposed event. Marco would also tell him about what he had seen Lockhart do at the teachers’ lounge or tell to other professors, and Harry was frankly impressed when he heard that Lockhart —who obviously didn’t know the meaning of the words ‘self preservation’— had offered to teach Snape some new potions techniques and survived to tell the tale. Marco and Harry had speculated if what would get Lockhart out of the school would be a murder attempt —or a success in it— from Snape. Personally, Harry thought that would earn Snape the undying respect from half of the school’s population and increased hatred from the other half. Because there were still many students, mostly girls, who admired Lockhart and were so blind and deaf they actually believed him to be a good professor.

Contrary to what one would have thought seeing the first week, the school year so far was proving to be pretty average, at least by what Harry had deduced were Hogwarts standards through older students’ stories. He still had insanely scheduled Quidditch practices that would have had him dragging his feet back to the dormitory if it wasn’t for Marco’s far more demanding training sessions, fans to avoid —luckily for him, Colin Creevey and Ginny hadn’t become friends, and he had to admit he much preferred Ginny’s quiet staring from afar than Colin’s annoying enthusiasm and penchant for photographs, which almost unfailingly drew Lockhart’s even more annoying attention— an idiot blond brat he had to restrain himself from punching and things like that.

Of course, as Harry was an idiot and seemed unable to spend too long without making a decision he would later regret, soon before Halloween he agreed to go to Nearly Headless Nick’s, Gryffindor’s friendly ghost, deathday party. When he told Marco, he gave him one of those smirks that said ‘I know something you don’t, and you won’t like it when you learn what it is’. Marco, of course, refused to elaborate, and instead proceeded to thoroughly demonstrate that Harry hadn’t made nearly enough progress by easy and far too lazily beating him into the ground. The worst part was that Harry knew how much Marco was holding back during these sessions, and that just prompted him to try harder.

There was a downside to the training sessions neither of them had realized at first. Marco had insisted that Harry didn’t use any healing potions unless he accidentally received a serious injury, stating that he wouldn’t learn the same if he could almost instantly recover from the injuries, and Harry had agreed. Unfortunately, there was only so much one could pass as a result from training, and despite not being especially perceptive, Ron had eventually asked. During lunch, with Hermione there.  That destroyed any chance of Harry convincing Ron that it _was_ a result of Wood’s insane Quidditch practice sessions, so instead, after what had been too long a pause, he went for a half truth and said he had been doing some physical training on his own, the muggle way, after the fiasco last year. Ron, who didn’t know the first thing of muggle fighting styles, had let it go, but Hermione had narrowed her eyes at him, no doubt aware that one didn’t get so bruised training on his own. Fortunately, she didn’t comment further on it, but Harry resolved to change in the bathroom, preferably while his dorm mates were asleep, from that moment.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry wasn’t really surprised that Nick’s party was a dreadful affair, not after Marco’s reaction when he had told him, and he should probably have felt bad that he had dragged Ron and Hermione there, but in truth he was relieved that he didn’t have to suffer through it alone.

Harry had been regretting his decision even before the party, when the Halloween cheer started to spread through the castle, but one didn’t take promises lightly, and so the trio had gone to the dungeons that night.

The sight of the ghosts had been interesting, and Harry would probably have thought it cool if it hadn’t been ruined by the fact that every single edible thing in the party had been previously left to rot. The realization that he wouldn’t be able to eat here, and the memory of all the delicious food from the Great Hall, didn’t help his mood at all.

They met a ghost, Moaning Myrtle, who haunted a _bathroom_ in the school, and she was so depressing and whiny that it had been one of the most awkward introductions Harry had experienced in either life. One would think attempting to murder a crew’s captain while stuck in said crew’s ship would qualify for awkward introductions to the crewmembers, but the Whitebeard Pirates had been so easy going and Ace had been so hell bent on killing Whitebeard that there had been no room for awkwardness.

When a bunch of headless horsemen showed up and quite obviously stole Nick’s spotlight in an attempt to prove that he wasn’t as good as them because he hadn’t been completely decapitated, Harry wished fervently he had haki, suspecting he would have been able to hit the ghosts with it. It worked with logia users, so why wouldn’t it work with ghosts?

By then, however, they were so cold and uncomfortable that they took the first chance they found to leave the party, Harry wistfully thinking of the banquet upstairs in the Great Hall, and wondering if they would make it there in time to grab some food.

But they never made it there, because Harry heard the disturbing voice again, and following it led them straight to a corridor with the floor soaked in water, a petrified Mrs. Norris stuck to a wall and a message written on huge letters there.

_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._

 

* * *

 

 

Marco felt frustrated and annoyed as he flew through the halls of Hogwarts. He had lost it, again, and now he was headed to one of the places where he had sensed it, for far too brief a time to be able to catch up.

He wasn’t surprised when he saw the crowd gathered there, he had sensed them and that was how he had decided to go there even if it had already left. He had to admit, however, that he felt relief flood him when he realized it was Mrs. Norris —luckily only petrified instead of dead— who had been caught. He felt bad for the cat, even if it was a nasty piece of work, but it was much better than if the victim had been a student.

Ace was there, he had known that, and currently being yelled at by a distraught Argus Filch. Albus intervened before Marco decided he should go and kick Filch to see if he calmed down. Albus looked sombre, followed by the equally sombre looking Minerva and Severus and a stupidly jovial Lockhart who did the first remotely sensible thing during his stay at Howgarts by offering his office for Albus’ use.

Marco followed the group only because Ace, along with his friends, had been asked to accompany the professors —which told Marco they were the ones who had found the cat. Neither Ron, Hermione, Lockhart nor Filch noticed him tagging along.

Once in the office, Albus reached the conclusion Marco had already known, that Mrs. Norris was alive and had only been petrified, and then ignored Filch’s accusations that Ace had done it. Not even Severus, always willing to find a way to punish Ace, seemed inclined to agree with him. That didn’t mean he didn’t try to get Ace in trouble. Marco had to agree, however, that Severus made a good point when he asked why the students had gone to the second floor after leaving the party at the dungeon. He didn’t need Ron’s stomach's loud rumble to know food would have been their priority, Ace must be starving. He decided to ask him later, because it was obvious they weren’t willing to explain whatever had brought them to the second floor.

When the students left, Marco followed them, and received an answer to his question sooner than he had expected. Ace had seen him follow, and nodded to him. Marco waited outside of the classroom they had entered, and could easily hear the conversation. A voice. Ace had heard a voice that brought them there. Marco wondered if it had been haki, but guessed it would be easy enough to know.

—

As it turned out, it hadn’t been haki. Ace couldn’t hear any other voices in the school, nor sense people’s presences, and that brought the question of what, exactly, had that voice been, and why he was the only one who could hear it. Oh, Marco could guess what the voice was, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

When Ace asked if he had any theories, Marco answered.

“I think it’s the monster.”

“Monster? What monster?” Ace asked, and he looked excited. Of course he did, it was a _monster_ they were talking about. In any other circumstances, Marco would have shared the excitement, but he didn’t like this particular monster very much.

“Do you remember the writing on the wall?”

Ace blinked at the seemingly random question.

“Yeah. That a chamber of secrets had been opened and a warning to some heir’s enemies.”

“And do you know what the Chamber of Secrets is?”

Ace shook his head.

“Ron said it sounded familiar, but that’s it.”

“It’s a legend of the school. It’s said that Salazar Slytherin created the chamber and hid a monster there that his heir would release to purge the school of all those ‘unworthy’ of learning magic. Muggleborns.” Ace frowned. “Many people have searched for it, but no one has found any lead. For a long time, it was thought the Chamber was only a tale.”

“But?” Ace prompted.

“It was opened fifty years ago.”

“It was?” Ace blinked. “You were here?”

Marco nodded and continued his explanation.

“Yes. It started the same way: a message on the wall and a petrified victim. Only that it was a student then. From that point, more petrified students began to appear, until finally a student died. They were going to close the school, but a suspect was caught and the attacks stopped.”

Ace opened his mouth, but closed it again. Then he frowned.

“A _suspect_? Not _the culprit_?”

Marco smiled, glad to see he was catching on fast.

“They expelled him, but couldn’t prove he had opened the Chamber and didn’t send him to prison. He hadn’t, before you ask, I have no doubt about it. Albus and I knew who was the Heir of Slytherin, but had no proof of it and he got away with what he had done.”

“But if this guy was the heir, how come the Chamber has been opened again? You think his grandchild’s at school or something like that?”

Marco wasn’t sure if he should laugh or frown at the weird family picture Ace’s words had brought to his mind. Shudder, perhaps. Poor kids, if they had existed.

“No. I’m sure that guy didn’t have any children.” Before Ace could ask why, he explained it. “It was Voldemort.”

“… Oh.” Ace nodded. “Yeah. I don’t see him having family. But how’s he opened the Chamber, then? You think he’s here again?”

Marco shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I could feel him clearly last year.”

“Then what? He’s got someone to do it for him?”

“Perhaps,” Marco said, shrugging. “I have no more ideas than you, there.”

“But why can I hear the monster? You think it’s got to do with the prophecy?” Ace spat that last word. He wasn’t any more pleased with the idea than he had been when he first heard of it.

“Might be, I’m not sure there, either. But it makes sense that it’s that fucking monster. You heard it and it led you to Mrs. Norris and the message.”

Ace frowned, he tilted his head to the side as if considering something.

“It wasn’t the first time I heard it. I’d forgot about it with everything else, but I heard that voice-“

“The day you had detention with Lockhart,” Marco finished for him, not really surprised now that he had a theory. “I sensed it that day and tried to track it down. But I lost it, as always.”

“You did?” Ace seemed surprised.

Marco shrugged. It had frustrated him to no end at first fifty years ago, when the monster had disappeared from his senses almost right after every attack, but once he thought of it, it made sense.

“It’s always the same. It appears from below, far beneath the dungeons —that’s where most people thought the Chamber was, and they’re right— moves through the castle, attacks and vanishes to where it came from. I think the protections at the Chamber are so strong my haki can’t sense past them. It makes sense, if they have kept it hidden for a thousand years from every wizard that's tried to locate it.”

The next question that Ace asked was something else that had frustrated Marco back then, and was beginning to frustrate him again already.

“Why haven’t you caught it while it’s up here?”

Marco sighed.

“It moves in a way that it can’t be seen from the corridors —I think it’s inside the walls. That thing is fast, especially for how big I can sense it is, and the castle’s walls are harder to throw down than average ones. I did, once, but the monster had already disappeared and I couldn’t follow it. The broken wall brought a lot of trouble, though: the students began to think the monster could burst through a wall and kill them at any moment. It increased the fear.”

Ace was smirking by the end of that story, and Marco had to admit it hadn’t been his most brilliant moment.

“Any theories on what it is?”

“I never looked much into it.”

Ace blinked, stared at him and blinked again.

“Wait. _You_ , obsessive first division commander who nagged at anybody —mostly me and Thatch— who didn’t get their work done in time, didn’t investigate what the killer monster loose at the school was?”

“I didn’t have time,” Marco defended himself. It was true, for the most part, at least during those years. Later, he was ashamed to admit, it had just slipped his mind. “Back then there were two wars going on, the Second World War and a wizarding war in which Albus was deeply involved, and then there was that little bastard. During the attacks I was too busy trying to find anything that would lead me to the monster —following the brat wouldn’t have worked, he was too perceptive and wouldn’t have done anything with me watching, he knew I was Albus’ phoenix— and afterwards I was keeping tabs on him. I knew he wouldn’t open the Chamber again, he didn’t want Hogwarts to close, and he had already started recruiting. I doubted they would kill anyone during school, not after it had almost been closed because of a student dying, but I doubted they wouldn’t torture anyone, so I watched them. They kept the torture to each other, though.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry soon realized there was a disadvantage to his knowledge about the Chamber of Secrets. He couldn’t share it, because he would have to explain where it had come from, and thus he had to act as clueless as the rest of students were. Hermione had searched the library for answers, Ron was curious, and most of the information they had on the subject had come, funnily enough, from Binns.

And there was a rumour of _him_ being the Heir of Slytherin. Probably born from the fact he had found the cat. Though there were only rumours about him, not about Ron or Hermione —even if it made sense there were no rumours about Hermione, as she was a muggleborn— who had also been there. Harry knew if he wasn’t the bloody Boy Who Lived there wouldn’t be any rumours about him, either.

They had decided to investigate a little around where Mrs. Norris had been found, just for the sake of it —they didn’t really expect to discover anything, the area must have been searched thoroughly by then— and found a bunch of spiders —of which Ron happened to be deathly afraid— trying to get out of the castle in a way that could only be interpreted as fleeing in stampede.

Remembering the water that had flooded the floor when they found Mrs. Norris, they tracked its source to what Hermione identified as Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, leading to a most uncomfortable and unproductive conversation with the depressed ghost.

 

* * *

 

 

“Spiders? That’s weird,” Marco said when Harry told him later that afternoon. “It might help discover what that damn monster is.”

“You’re investigating it?” Harry asked, though, he guessed, it made sense.

“I’m reading some books.”

Harry frowned.

“You sure that’ll do anything? I think half the school is searching the library for answers.”

“Not the Restricted Section,” Marco answered. Harry grimaced at the memory of his only visit to that section, and Marco must have guessed what he was thinking, because he said, “Don’t forget I can sense when someone approaches. Besides, it’s not as guarded as most students think, less so during the day.”

Harry filed that information away for future reference.

“And what about the water? Did that happen before?”

“No, that’s Myrtle, she likes to flood the place sometimes.”

Harry sighed, remembering the awkward conversation they had had with her.

“She didn’t see anything useful,” he complained. “You’d think being there she would’ve noticed _something_.”

“She didn’t notice much the first time, either.”

“Huh? The first time?”

“You don’t know?” Harry blinked and shook his head, having no clue of what Marco could mean. “She’s the one who died fifty years ago.”

“Oh.” Harry had wondered why a girl’s ghost was haunting a bathroom in the school, but he guessed it made sense if she had died there. “Did she say anything?”

“She had been crying in that bathroom —the other students picked on her— when she heard a boy’s voice. She opened the stall’s door to tell him off but she said she saw a pair of big yellow eyes, and the next thing she knew was that she was dead.”

“...Weird. You think it was Voldemort she heard?”

“Probably. We searched the bathroom and surrounding area, but didn’t find anything. Albus thinks Voldemort took the monster there to kill her. She was muggleborn, so I guess it’s possible. Though it’s weird something has happened so close to that bathroom again.”

 

* * *

 

 

Contrary to his friends, Harry didn’t _believe_ Malfoy to be the Heir of Slytherin, though he had pretended to side with Ron in that argument. He knew Malfoy wasn’t the Heir, but he would bet an arm that Lucius Malfoy had been one of Voldemort’s followers, and it might be that he had been told how to open the Chamber and now his son was doing it. Malfoy had acted pleased enough with the events for that to be the case.

Still, Harry didn’t fancy having his eyes pecked out, so he made a point of forgetting to mention to Marco their plan to brew the Polyjuice Potion to interrogate Malfoy while posing as Slytherin students. It would have been easier if he had been able to tell Marco, because he could have copied them the recipe in a moment, but Harry didn’t want to risk it, so instead he had proposed his plan B. Hermione hadn’t liked Harry and Ron’s argument that Lockhart would sign them a permission to get the book with the potion’s recipe out of the Restricted Section because he was a pompous idiot who would do anything if flattered, but she had finally relented and agreed to try.

And now the three of them were looking at the most complicated potion recipe they had ever seen. A potion for which they needed some ingredients that weren’t in the students’ cupboard. Harry came up with the solution to that problem soon enough.

“I bet Snape has them.”

Surprisingly, or not so much seeing as the whole potion plan had been her idea, Hermione didn’t oppose the idea of stealing from Snape.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco wasn't a great fan of Quidditch. It was somewhat entertaining, he could admit as much, and he certainly saw the appeal wizards found in broomsticks, because they allowed them to fly. Marco _loved_ flying. But he didn’t like sports too much: watching them grew boring soon, and he had to hold back a lot to play with other people, which could be really frustrating.

Now he was growing increasingly annoyed with Quidditch.

This was the second year Ace had been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and the second year someone tried to murder him during a match. This time it was a bludger that by all means and purposes looked enchanted to go straight for him.

He was perched on top of the stands, ready to fly in at any given moment, though he didn’t really expect he would have to. Ace’s broom was fast, and he had decent enough reflexes —something he wouldn’t admit to Ace, because they weren’t nearly as good as Marco knew they could be— but the situation was worrying. There had been a moment when the Weasley twins had basically become extensions of Ace’s broom, but after the Gryffindor team asked for a time out and the game resumed again, Ace was alone once more. Because, of course, the little idiot wouldn’t forfeit a game just because a crazy ball was intent on killing him, and there was no rule in Quidditch that would allow to take said ball away or change it mid-game.

The bludger could have been enchanted by one of the Slytherin players, of course, but Marco wasn’t sure of that, and thus was straining his senses in search of something off. He would have growled —but the sound he made came out as an annoyed chirp in his current form— when he noticed a known presence that shouldn’t have been there hidden behind the stands.

Marco took off, and no one noticed him diving below the Gryffindor stands among the cheers and excitement of the game.

Dobby the house elf didn’t pay any attention to him when he flew next to him, not until Marco was surrounded by blue fire, grew and stretched a hand out of the fire mid-transformation to grab Dobby by the neck. The fire disappeared and he was completely human.

Dobby squealed.

“Stop that,” Marco growled.

“D-Dobby doesn’t know what the sir is talking about,” he stammered, eyes darting around.

“The bludger,” Marco growled again, “stop controlling it or I’ll knock you out.”

Instead of answering, Dobby tried to disappear from Marco’s grasp, and his bulging eyes opened even more when he realized he couldn’t do it. Marco had learned years ago how to use haki to block apparition the same way it could prevent a logia from becoming intangible.

“Listen, you little shit. Harry Potter is safer here than at those fucking muggles’ house.”

Dobby shook his head fervently.

“Harry Potter is in great danger. He must leave, he has to be safe. The Chamber has been opened again,” Dobby insisted desperately, squirming in Marco’s hand.

Loud gasps came from the crowd, and the only reason Marco didn’t rush out was that he could feel Ace was still there, even if he sensed that he was injured now. Instead, he tightened his hold on Dobby, not caring that he whimpered.

“Listen well; he is safer here. I can protect him if he stays at the school _and_ search for the Chamber of Secrets. I guess you knew it would be opened because your owners are behind this,” Dobby blanched and squirmed further. “I won’t ask, I know you won’t tell me, but get this straight: if I even _sense_ your presence near him again, I’m going to murder you. I don’t care if you think you’re doing the right thing, you’re just putting him in even more danger, and I won’t let you.” He shook Dobby at each of the last few words for further effect. “Understood?”

A thoroughly frightened Dobby nodded fervently and Marco let go of him.

“Get out of here.”

At the same time that Dobby popped out, a mix of gasps and cheers burst through the stadium, and Marco rushed out, barely remembering to change back into his small phoenix form before the rain hit him.

A crowd had begun to gather around a now unconscious Ace who was clutching the snitch with the hand of his good arm, the other was bent in an unnatural angle that told Marco where Dobby’s bludger had hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, it never made sense to me that Dobby just stopped his attempts to get Harry away from Hogwarts after the Bludger incident, so I gave a reason for it here. I know Dobby said he is used to death threats, but I bet Marco is a thousand times scarier than Lucius Malfoy. Besides, he proved he can hold Dobby down, which means he can do things wizards can't. That sort of supports his claims that he can protect Harry.


	11. From bad to worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So it took me a month to post it. I have no excuse, not even the exams, because I only had to revise4 the chapter before posting. I'm sorry, I've been kind of down lately. I'll try this doesn't happen again.

Harry Potter was in a horribly bad mood. First a bludger had tried to kill him, succeeding in breaking his arm, then that bubbling bag of cocky stupidity known as Gilderoy Lockhart had vanished said arm’s bones and then, when things had seemed to be looking up —his teammates had come tovisit him at the hospital wing him loaded with food— Madam Pomfrey had thrown his friends and most of the food out, only letting him keep two cakes and a bottle of pumpkin juice that did barely anything for his hunger.

Now, he was alone in the dark, his stomach growling while his arm hurt as it grew its bones back, attempting to fall asleep now that Madam Pomfrey had retreated to sleep. She had learned from what had happened at the end of last year and had warded the door to prevent Harry from sneaking out, which ruined any chances he had to slip out of the hospital wing and go to the common room, where the party over their victory was no doubt still going and there was bound to be food.

He really needed food.

The sound of the door opening drew his attention, and Harry sat up in the bed, grimacing when the movement jostled his injured arm. There, standing at the doorway, was Marco, holding a bag in one hand.

“Hey,” Harry greeted, leaning back against the headboard.

Marco stepped in and closed the door behind himself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like an idiot melted all my bones.”

Marco smirked, walking closer and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“That man might have a little problem tomorrow.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and smirked, too.

“What did you do?”

“I threw all his hair curlers into the lake. Anyone else could conjure new ones, but we all know he can’t. And he’s too conceited to ask anybody for help.”

Harry’s smirk grew at the mental image of Lockhart desperately searching for his stupid hair curlers and then failing all his attempts to transfigure new ones. He suddenly felt better.

“I brought you food,” Marco said, offering him the bag. Harry grinned happily. “Can you eat with only one hand?”

“I’ll manage,” he assured Marco, dumping the bag’s contents —mostly packaged things— on his lap. He unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it. “No one saw you?”

“No, I made sure of that.”

“What about-?” Harry stuffed two crackers in his mouth and looked meaningfully at the closed door of Madam Pomfrey’s office.

“She’s asleep. As long as we don’t make much noise she won’t notice a thing.”

Harry nodded and continued to devour his food. They didn’t talk much as he did, but once he was done, Marco put everything incriminating back into the bag and spoke.

“Dobby enchanted that bludger.”

“Dobby?” Harry growled. “That damned elf.”

“I don’t think he’ll come back.”

Harry looked at Marco, who was completely serious as he stared out into the darkness.

“You used the ‘first division commander scolding someone’ voice on him?”

“No, I used the ‘Marco the Phoenix threatening an enemy’ one.”

Harry whistled.

“Did he piss himself?” Marco threatening an enemy was one of the scariest things anyone in the Whitebeard Pirates had ever witnessed.

Marco chuckled.

“No.”

“Have to give it to him, then. He’s brave.”

“Yeah. He knew the Chamber would be opened, it must have taken a lot for him to defy his masters and try to warn you.”

“What’s the deal with house elves?” Harry asked. He had wondered it the first time he had seen Dobby, but had been distracted first by his anger and then by the fact that he would be spending his summer with Marco, and it had slipped his mind.

Now, though, as he listened to an explanation that reminded him of the stories about how the Tenryuubito had treated their slaves, Harry developed a respect for Dobby he would never have expected to have. By the end of it, he frowned at Marco.

“And knowing all this, you threatened to kill him?”

“Yeah. I’m not sorry I did,” Marco added before Harry could say anything, “he could have got you killed. I’d do it again if I had to.”

Harry was left without knowing what to say. He might disapprove of abusing a creature for whom abuse was a main part of his life, but he knew Marco would do anything to protect those he cared about, and it felt nice to be reminded of that. He settled for nodding in acceptance.

“Anything interesting happened while I was in here?”

“You mean aside from the party in Gryffindor Tower?” Marco answered with a smile. “I think they emptied the kitchens, it’s a pity you missed it.”

Harry glared at him.

“Thanks for the reminder. Where’d you get the food, anyway?”

“The kitchens.”

“Oh.” Harry paused, an idea forming in his head. He grinned. “You know where they are?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to show me.”

“When you’ve recovered.” Harry nodded eagerly. “And, speaking of your arm, I think we should stay away from physical training for a couple of days.”

“Why?” asked Harry, frowning in displeasure at the idea.

“Because those bones won’t immediately work perfectly. You don’t want to risk needing to have them mended again, do you?”

Harry reluctantly nodded in agreement. Marco opened his mouth to say something else, but whatever it was Harry didn’t hear, because then Marco froze for the shortest of seconds.

“ _Fuck_.”

“What?” Harry asked, worried by the reaction. He saw Marco clench one of his hands into a tight fist.

“The monster is out.”

“Really?” Harry tried to strain his hearing to see if he caught anything. “I don’t hear it.”

“It’s not close.”

“Aren’t you going after it?” Harry asked when he noticed Marco wasn't moving.

“No.”

Harry frowned at him. He had got the impression that Marco really wanted to kill that monster.

“Why not?”

“You’re here.”

“So what? I can take care of myself,” Harry argued. He should have been more offended, probably furious, but once again it felt good to see Marco cared.

“You only have an arm, Ace. I’m not going anywhere.”

They fell silent, Harry no longer wishing to talk when he knew that thing was loose at the school. He noticed Marco had a faraway look, and realized he must be trying to track that thing’s movements. His suspicion was confirmed when Marco cursed again.

“What?”

“It’s found someone,” growled Marco. Ace closed his eyes, trying to will the monster away from its victim. “It’s going back down now, but the other presence is still there,” Marco said with relief moments later.

“You think it didn’t catch whoever’s there?”

“I doubt so, it’s probably petrified them. Whoever’s there isn’t moving.”

“Fuck,” this time it was Harry who said it, and any other adult but Marco would have scolded him for his choice of words.

Marco stood up.

“I’m going to get— No, no need for it.” He sat back down.

“What?”

“I was going to say I was going to get Albus, but he’s heading that way already. I guess we just have to wait now.”

They did so in silence and when Marco felt Dumbledore, now accompanied by McGonagall, approach the infirmary carrying the new victim, he transformed into his smaller phoenix form and hid under Harry’s bed.

Harry himself pretended to be asleep.

The professors entered the infirmary, carrying between them who Harry soon identified as Colin Creevey —he was clutching his camera in his hands and right before his face. The adults speculated that Creevey must have been coming here to see Harry, and Harry thought guiltily that he would probably have punched him if he had showed up so late to pester him. Now he would rather he _had_ showed up.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Harry found his friends in Myrtle’s bathroom —they had decided to get started on the potion after hearing what had happened to Colin— and he gave them an edited version of what had happened with Dobby. Harry trusted his friends, but at the moment he didn’t feel up to explaining the whole story of his reincarnation and Marco’s presence —especially when he still didn’t have all the details on that— so instead he told them Dobby had visited him in the middle of the night to attempt to convince him to leave Hogwarts, and also told them what Dumbledore —when he brought Colin— had said, that the Chamber had been opened _again_. This way, his friends had almost all the relevant information on the topic. Now he just needed to find a way to tell them it had been Voldemort who opened it the first time and that Myrtle had died back then.

After the news of Colin’s attack, the air in the school was considerably more sombre, rumours spread faster than they had been doing already and some people was becoming afraid. A good example were the first years and, out of all of them, Ginny Weasley seemed to have taken it really bad. Unsurprisingly, a black market of supposedly protective objects appeared as a result of the fear. There was people, Harry thought, who would take advantage of any situation to make money.

Weeks passed without another attack, and most people began to calm somewhat. Harry didn’t, and he spent as much time as he could get away with without raising suspicion from Ron and Hermione training with Marco, intent on being as prepared as possible to be ready for anything that might happen. Contrary to what happened last year, Marco wasn’t trying to stop him from being involved; he instead agreed to increase the level of the training and gave Harry homework whenever he thought Harry could learn a spell outside of their time together, mostly those that weren’t too advanced for his year.

To cover for his spell learning, Harry had convinced Ron and Hermione they should learn more spells —not because they might become involved with anything, he didn’t want Hermione to give him a speech of how they would tell anything they discovered to a teacher, but because there was the possibility they could be caught while in the Slytherin common room, and then they would need to know as many spells as possible in order to get away from there. This way, too, Harry felt better knowing his friends were learning some useful extra magic.

When the time to say if they wanted to stay at the school for Christmas came, both Ron and Hermione decided to stay, because Malfoy would be staying as well and that was suspicious. Besides, Hermione thought, it would be easier to use the potion during the holidays, when the school would be far emptier than usual.

The only thing that had to be done now was to complete the potion, and for that they needed the ingredients that were only in Snape’s private stores. Hermione would steal them, while Ron and Harry caused a distraction. Harry should probably have been worried, deliberately angering Snape was considered madness by most of the student body, but he thought the idea promised to be fun. He carefully hid that thought from Ron and Hermione, and made his best effort to simulate Ron’s apprehension.

As he had no fire ability to rely on, throwing fireworks into a potion to make it explode seemed the best plan to Harry. Fred and George were more than happy to provide the fireworks.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had known Ace had been up to something for weeks now —it didn’t matter that this was another life for him, Portgas D. Ace wasn’t known for his subtlety, and lying had never been his thing— and his suspicions were confirmed when a fuming Severus entered the teacher’s lounge that afternoon. By that point, most of the teachers already knew of the incident at the Second Year Gryffindor and Slytherin potions class, but no one was willing to believe Severus when he said it had been Harry Potter who threw the fireworks, not when he had no proof and his hatred for him was well known. Marco, for his part, was inclined to believe Severus. He wasn’t sure if Severus had used legilimency on Ace —of which Marco would _not_ approve— or if Ace’s abysmal acting skills had given him away, but he believed it had been him, too.

What he wasn’t sure of was Ace’s reason to do it.

As a pirate, Marco would have said Ace did it simply because he was bored or felt like pulling a prank, but as a student he was more cautious, and those reasons wouldn’t have been enough for him to throw fireworks into a cauldron —at least not in the class of the professor who hated him the most and was hell bent on having him expelled.

And so, Marco was left wondering what Ace had wanted to do —or get— in the potions classroom that required such a distraction.

Marco was distracted from his musing when a widely smiling Lockhart —who was looked at with different degrees of disguised or very much apparent disdain— entered the room, and the topic that they had been discussing for the last couple of weeks was resumed.

If he had been able to, Marco would have smirked. This was going to be good.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Marco was perched on one of the windows of the Great Hall from where he had a splendid view of the mass of students gathered there before the stage that had replaced the usual tables. He could hear the children’s excited chatter, and he almost felt bad for how naive they were, thinking they would actually learn anything useful here. He spotted Ace and his friends entering the room, and could tell the exact moment Ace spotted the flamboyant Gilderoy Lockhart walking onto the stage, followed by Severus Snape.

Marco at first had been surprised when Severus had agreed to assist Lockhart without any complaints, but then he had realized this was the perfect chance for him to curse Lockhart without any repercussions —as long as he stayed away from deadly or gravely injuring curses.

He was impressed, given how much Lockhart had managed to infuriate him during his short introductory speech, that Severus limited himself to a theoretically harmless _expelliarmus_. Theoretically, because Severus put so much power behind the spell that Lockhart was blasted into a wall. The idiot had the gall to try to pretend it had been all intentional.

Marco had planned to enjoy the show the abysmal duelling skills of the students would provide. Lockhart, being the idiot he was, had believed a bunch of teenagers, when allowed to fight each other, would stick to the instruction of ‘only disarm’. Not even five minutes later, the duels had to be stopped.

Lockhart’s two working brain cells must have awakened, because he realized he should teach the students how to block spells first. A look at Severus, however, dissuaded him of another teachers’ demonstration —a pity, really, Marco would have loved to see that— and instead decided to have two students try it. Severus, being his vindictive self, suggested Ace and Malfoy and the supposed celebrity loved the idea.

Marco thought it was a good thing Ace already knew how to use the shield charm, because ‘pathetic’ didn’t begin to cover Lockhart’s attempt at teaching it to him.

What happened next made Marco really wish to kick Severus. Hard. He had seen him whisper something to Malfoy, but telling him to conjure a snake in the middle of a room full of children was too much even for him.

Things went to hell from there. Lockhart pissed the snake off —unsurprisingly— the animal moved to attack a student and Ace _hissed_ at it, making it stop.

_Parseltongue. Fuck._

 

* * *

 

 

Marco flew through the school halls towards Albus’ office, dodging students as he went and earning startled and indignant yells from them. He wasn’t going really fast, he still had the presence of mind to remember that if he went at his full speed the students would only notice a fast breeze —the ones with better sight would see a blur zooming through the hallways— and it could result in a panic if someone thought it was Slytherin’s monster. Instead, he moved as fast as he could while still being visible: plenty of students had seen Dumbledore’s phoenix before, after all.

This morning, he hadn’t paid much attention to the rumours spreading through the student body that said Justin Finch-Fletchley, the boy the snake had been about to attack yesterday, had been marked by Harry Potter —whom most of the school now believed to be the Heir of Slytherin— as his next victim. But now Justin had appeared petrified next to a strangely immobile Nearly Headless Nick.

Marco had sensed the monster earlier and had been trying fruitlessly to find it. He had gotten close, he could feel it, but when he thought he might have caught it the thing had headed straight down again, disappearing as Marco tried to wind his way down through the hallways. Annoyed, he had headed back to where he had felt the thing encounter two other presences —that thankfully were still there when the thing left— and that’s when he had found a boy that had to be Ace’s age —a black and immobile Nearly Headless Nick, one of the two Marco had felt close to the monster, hovering above his head— exclaiming loudly to a group of students that Harry Potter had been caught at the scene and that Professor McGonagall had taken him to see the headmaster.

Marco knew Albus wouldn’t expel Ace, but he hadn’t seen him since the incident with the snake yesterday —he guessed Ron and Hermione had insisted he should stay with them— and was worried about how he might be doing.

When he was close to Albus’ office, he exited through one of the castle’s windows —enchanted so the cold December air couldn’t enter through it— and flew to the window in the headmaster’s office that Albus always kept open for him. Albus wasn’t there.

Ace arrived barely a minute later, looking a worrying mix of pale and about to explode.

Minerva told him to wait there, and left in search of Albus. As soon as they were alone, Marco flew up to Ace. He didn’t transform, as he knew the two professors could come back any time and he might not have the time to change back, but he tilted his head in the gesture Ace knew to interpret as a question. Ace sighed.

“You heard, didn’t you?” Marco nodded. “I’d gone to look for Justin, I wanted to apologize for scaring him and explain I’d told the snake to stop, not to attack him. I didn’t find him, but I found the other Hufflepuffs. They’re idiots.”

Ace sighed and moved to plop down in one of the chairs in front of Albus’ desk, ignoring everything manners dictated for this kind of situation. Marco flew to perch on the desk in front of him and waited for him to continue.

“There was this asshole —Ernie McMillan— explaining why it’s obvious I am the damned Heir of Slytherin. He said I attacked Mrs. Norris because I’d had a run in with Filch, and Colin because he annoyed me, and _obviously_ what happened yesterday means I marked Justin as my next victim because he told me months ago he’s muggleborn —I didn’t even remember that— and now Justin has appeared petrified. Those idiots saw us, too. They’re probably saying I attacked him by now,” Ace growled out without making a pause, and then took a deep breath as if to compensate.

Marco guessed one of those students was the one he had heard the story from.

The door to the office opened and Albus, no trace of his usual joviality on his face, walked in. He saw them and smiled.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Fawkes, Harry.”

 _If you only knew..._ was the thought that crossed Marco’s mind. He was in anything but a good mood right now.

Albus moved to sit in the chair behind his desk while he explained to Ace all the virtues of a phoenix, the ones the three present —though Albus was only aware of two of them— knew he didn’t possess. It was something Albus tended to do, cover for all of Marco’s ‘deficiencies’ as a phoenix in front of others. Marco appreciated the gesture, for he knew certain people would try to take advantage of what they would view as a vulnerable creature. If he hadn’t had other means to defend himself, he would be screwed if anybody found out he couldn’t do what most phoenixes did —though it was nice not having a Burning Day.

Before either of the wizards could say anything else, however, the door burst open and Hagrid, looking wild and carrying a dead rooster —it wasn’t the first one that had died lately— entered the office, claiming Ace’s innocence. Marco would have smiled, it was good to know Ace had such a loyal friend.

Albus already knew Harry was innocent, of course, and stating so served to calm Hagrid down. Ace, Marco noticed, made an effort to appear surprised at the statement, because he already knew through Marco that Albus knew the identity of the Heir. It was a decent attempt, as far as Ace’s acting skills went.

As soon as Ace left, Marco rose in the air to follow, and saw Albus smile at him as he went. He probably thought Marco was going to try to cheer Ace up, which wasn’t far from the truth.

Ace kicked open the door of the first empty classroom he found, and Marco had to hurry to fly inside when it rebounded, and right after he had entered it closed with a loud bang. Ace didn’t pay him any attention at first, his focus on kicking and punching the desks and chairs there. Marco transformed and waited for Ace to blow off some steam.

When Ace finally stopped, half of the classroom’s furniture having been destroyed and the other half upturned, Marco decided to speak.

“Feeling better?”

“No,” Ace growled.

“Seeing your reaction,” he gestured around with one hand, “I guess something else happened.”

Ace nodded and straightened up before finally looking at him.

“That asshole I told you about. Do you know what he answered when a girl pointed out I had defeated Voldemort?” Marco shook his head and waited for him to explain. “He said, as I was a baby, I must be a super powerful dark wizard, because the only way I could have deflected that curse is using very powerful dark magic. That, too, explains why Voldemort came after me, because he didn’t want another Dark Lord _competing_ with him,” he growled.

And there, in that bitter answer, was an explanation to more than what Ace probably realized. Because he was used to rumours being spread about him —he _had_ been an extremely infamous pirate, and he wouldn’t react so badly to an average story about him being evil. It wasn’t so much that people suspected he was the Heir of Slytherin that angered him —that rumour had started even before the duelling club and Ace couldn’t have cared less— as it was the fact some of them were now saying he had been evil since birth. Implying that his birth itself had been a bad thing. That was an old wound in Ace’s soul, one that came from far before he had been reborn.

Frowning in annoyance, Marco walked up to Ace, took him by the upper arms and pulled him into a hug.

“H-Hey! What’re you doing?!” Ace exclaimed, squirming.

“Ignore those idiots. I’m glad you were born. Both times. Alright?”

“O-Okay,” Ace stammered. He didn’t sound so angry anymore. “Can you let go? I’m not a little kid.”

“I don’t care.”

He didn’t let go.

 

* * *

 

 

_“So that’s it? That’s why you wanted to kill Pops?” Marco asked once Ace was done explaining to him why he had been in such a dark mood since he had been offered the position of_ _se_ _cond_ _di_ _vision_ _c_ _ommander. It hadn’t been easy, either, Marco had been pestering_ _him_ _for days, using any method of persuasion —excluding the excessively violent ones— before Ace had caved in and explained._

_“I guess. I’m not all that sure why I wanted to kill him. To prove I’m better than that man, perhaps. Didn’t go as planned.”_

_“Don’t tell me you regret it.”_

_Ace smiled, but it was more a bitter gesture than a happy one._

_“No, not really. Though I guess it’s over now, huh?”_

_“Don’t be stupid, Pops has already told you he has no problem with it.”_

_“Yeah, well, but now you-“ Ace gestured first to Marco and then_ _to_ _himself, and it took the_ _Marco_ _a moment before understanding what_ _he_ _meant._

_Annoyed, Marco grabbed Ace’s arm and pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around him._

_“I don’t give a fuck who your father is, got it? So stop being an idiot.”_


	12. Tom Riddle's diary

After the last attack, fear took over the student body. More than Justin having been petrified —which scared some people— it was the fact that Nearly Headless Nick had also been affected by the monster that  terrified people. Speculations of what kind of monster could affect a ghost, as well as some study groups determined to figure out the answer to this question, bloomed amongst the Hogwarts students.

What increased as well was the conviction that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, and with this grew the fear and mistrust from the other students towards him. Harry didn’t particularly care what others thought of him in most cases, but he had to admit this situation bothered him far more than when last year he had been shunned by his House for losing them a hundred points. He was grateful for Ron and Hermione’s unwavering support, as well as for every student who didn’t believe what now was the school’s general consensus about him. Especially, he liked Fred and George Weasley’s take on the situation: they had made a joke of the whole him being the Heir affair and made Harry laugh with their antics, announcing His Evilness’ arrival or whatever they chose to call him at any given moment. They had even bowed comically at him some times. Needless to say, Percy didn’t agree with Harry’s view of their attitude. Neither did Ginny, who practically begged them to stop every time they started asking who the next victim would be.

Another thing that Harry enjoyed was what he called Marco’s personal vendetta against the school. Anybody whom Marcooverheard saying something too out of place about Harry later would find themselves with a vandalized book, their things missing or, if Marco had found the comment particularly offensive, a nasty surprise in their things. Ernie Macmillan swore a blur so fast he couldn’t see it had dumped a sac of Hagrid’s dragon dung on his head two days after the attack. These incidents were mostly blamed on Harry —sometimes on Fred and George, who found them hilarious and were pestering Harry to tell them who was behind them once Harry admitted he wasn’t the one doing it— but Harry didn’t mind; the blame didn’t make much of a difference with all the other accusations, and was more than worth it.

Though the best incident in Harry’s opinion had been when, the day after the attack and two days after the disastrous duelling club, they entered the Potions classroom to find it decorated in pink ribbons that clashed horribly with the murderous expression on Snape’s face. Marco had later told Harry he had used special ribbons that couldn’t be changed colours and had stuck them using a paste from a joke shop —“it’s in Hogsmeade, you’ll visit the place next year”— that wouldn’t go away, no matter what one tried, for at least a week.

Marco blamed Snape for the snake that had started the whole mess.

A not so unexpected consequence of the attack was that many people who had intended to stay at the school during the Christmas break had decided to go home. This, in Harry, Ron and Hermione's opinion, was a good thing, because Malfoy was still staying and with less people in the castle there were less chances of someone discovering them when they put their plan in motion. The fact that the stares would diminish considerably was an extra bonus to Harry, who was tiring rapidly of them, the whispers and the fingers pointing at him wherever he went.

When the holidays arrived, the only Gryffindors to stay at the school were Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys. As much fun as he had with them —and it was really nice to be able to stay peacefully, or as close as possible to peaceful with Fred and George around, in the common room without receiving any distrustful or downright hateful glares— he found it increasingly difficult to sneak out to go meet Marco, which resulted in him leaving the tower at night, when Ron was sound asleep, covered with his invisibility cloak to go to the Room of Requirement, where the training sessions had now turned nocturnal.

Out of the whole Heir problem, what Harry had disliked the most the last couple of days of term had been the realization that he couldn’t go anywhere alone, because he attracted too much attention to sneak out either to the classroom or to the Room of Requirement and, in a couple of occasions, he had noticed groups of students readying themselves to follow him with less than friendly intentions apparent in their stances. Harry knew he could take most of them on, but he doubted beating a group of boys would do much to help his appearance of innocence.

If by the time classes started again things hadn’t cooled off, Harry and Marco would have to figure out another way to meet.

 

* * *

 

 

Aside from presents, Christmas morning started with Hermione entering the second year boys’ dormitory to announce that the Polyjuice Potion was finally ready.

Deciding they would use it that night, they started to open their presents. He wasn’t surprised to see that the Dursleys, toothpick aside, had sent a note telling him to discover if he could stay anywhere else for the summer, like ‘with that blond freak’. There was nothing he would like more to do than to stay with Marco over the holidays, but he knew it wasn’t possible. Harry hid the note before Ron or Hermione could raise their gazes from their own presents and notice it.

He received far less presents than last year —he hadn’t expected anything different, most people _was_ terrified of him— and they consisted mostly of sweets from Hagrid and Mrs. Weasley —who also sent him a hand knitted sweater like last year— a quidditch book from Ron, a quill similar to one Lockhart had from Hermione —Harry would keep it only because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings— and, amusingly enough, a short sleeved yellow shirt that resembled suspiciously one he remembered. When he read the note ‘ _brings back any memories?_ ’ with an axe drawn below the text —that had been one of his most memorable attempts— he started chuckling. When Ron and Hermione asked what was so funny about a shirt, he stammered it was from a friend and when Hermione, eyes narrowed, asked _what_ friend —because Harry had never mentioned anyone outside of Hogwarts that he would consider a friend— he hurried to change the topic to Ron’s presents. Ron was more than happy to start talking about what he had received, but Harry knew he hadn’t distracted Hermione. He hoped the mission with the potion would monopolize her attention enough to make her forget about the shirt.

 

* * *

 

 

When Hermione had exposed her plan for Harry and Ron to get Crabbe and Goyle’s hairs, Ron had commented on how many holes the plan had, and how he thought it was too stupid to work. Harry didn’t say anything, because he knew the plan had a chance to work —Luffy _would_ have fallen for the trap of two chocolate muffins in the middle of a hallway, even Harry himself would have if he was caught off guard— and it _did_ work.

Ron had been worried about how they would drag the considerably bigger boys into a closet, but Harry took care of it, surprising Ron with the strength he didn’t look like he had —Harry was slightly more muscular than he had been that summer, but it wasn’t noticeable beneath his school robes, and it would certainly not justify the ease with which he had dragged Crabbe and Goyle into the closet.

Once they went back to Myrtle’s bathroom with their prize, they drank the disgusting potion –and it _had_ to be horrible for Harry to think of it as disgusting, somewhere around Devil Fruit level of disgusting. The potion was correctly made, and Harry had the dubious honour of transforming into Gregory Goyle, just as Ron did into Vincent Crabbe. However, Hermione must have had some problem because she refused to come out of her bathroom stall, instead sending them to take care of the mission because they only had an hour before the potion wore off.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, Malfoy didn’t know anything about the Chamber of Secrets aside from what they had already known, that it had been opened fifty years ago, but he didn’t even know _who_ had opened it back then, much less who was doing it now. The only new information, at least as far as Ron and Hermione were concerned, was the fact that someone had died the first time around.

And, speaking of Hermione, for the brightest student in their year, she had made a very stupid mistake by not realizing that the hair she had taken was a cat’s hair. They just told her they hadn’t discovered who was behind the attacks while they led her to the Hospital Wing, but waited until after Madam Pomfrey had at least checked her over to give a more detailed report. Madam Pomfrey sent them to bed as soon as they arrived, and when they went to talk to Hermione the next day they found her –still furry, tail and all, frowning at the closest window.

As it turned out, it would take some time for her to be back to normal, which meant Hermione would miss weeks of classes –she was angry, Ron was envious, and Harry would have been, too, if it wasn’t because the prospect of weeks stuck in bed was terrifying— but Harry got the feeling, by the way she pursed her lips, that there was something else bothering her. So he asked.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just… there was a bird there,” she pointed at the window, “and, if it wasn’t impossible, I would say it was laughing at me.”

Harry knew it wasn’t impossible, of course, but he didn’t tell her that.

When he next met Marco that night, Marco just raised his eyebrows.

“Polyjuice?” he asked.

“Wasn’t worth it,” Harry grumbled, sitting down in a chair the Room of Requirement materialized for him. “Ron and Hermione thought Malfoy was the Heir, I thought the little shit might know something, the way he’s been acting, but the idiot has no idea what’s going on. Though he said his dad knows everything of what happened last time.”

“Makes sense. Lucius Malfoy was one of Voldemort’s most important followers, even if the guy managed to keep his ass out of Azkaban.”

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, the start of classes didn’t bring any significant changes to how things had been before Christmas. Harry was still followed everywhere by furious whispers, pointing fingers and a dozen of eyes that ensured he couldn’t go anywhere alone. With school back on, Harry could no longer slip out every night to train, as he now had classes five days a week and couldn’t sleep in those days, nor could he spend the afternoons asleep as he had homework and a life. Thus, Harry’s training sessions –much to his annoyance— were reduced to Friday and Saturday nights, and his meetings with Marco became sporadic now that he couldn’t go to their classroom.

The first few weeks of classes were uneventful enough, to the point of them being boring. Not that Harry wanted an attack or anything, but people were beginning to be lulled into a false sense of security, and shy rumours of the attacks having stopped began to appear. The main belief was still that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, though.

One day, Harry and Ron found a diary that had been thrown in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

Myrtle hadn’t seen who had thrown the book, too absorbed in her own misery to notice anything else, but the diary of T. M. Riddle, who had received an award for special services to the school fifty years ago –Ron had had to clean the plaque when he was throwing up slugs and remembered it— became the most interesting thing that had happened to them since the cat hair incident. Ron lost some interest when they saw the diary was empty, but Harry didn’t. Because, seriously, what were the chances of the diary from a guy who received an award fifty years ago showing up right when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened again being just a coincidence?

 

* * *

 

 

Harry would have liked to show Marco the diary, but he had to wait until the weekend to go see him, and when the time came he couldn’t leave the Gryffindor Tower because some seventh years had decided to spend both Friday and Saturday nights awake that week. Occupying the common room. There was no way that Harry could get past them, invisibility cloak or not, when they were awake and sober. Apparently the students were getting in some extra study, and Harry heard dark mutterings about the greasy git of the dungeons.

Thus, Sunday came and he hadn’t been able to go see Marco, but Hermione was released from the Hospital Wing that day and she shared his opinion that the diary might hide something. None of her attempts to discover what it was worked, sadly.

Hermione thought Riddle might be the one who caught the culprit last time and could tell them who it was. Harry was more inclined to believe Riddle might be the guy Voldemort manipulated to capture whoever he decided to blame for the attacks, and that he might know something that could help them locate the Chamber.

Either way, it didn’t seem to matter, because they couldn’t get anything from the diary.

Lacking a way to read anything from it, by the next weekend the diary, still in Harry’s possession, had slipped his mind when he left to meet Marco, and he forgot it in his school bag.

He should have kept the diary in mind, his suspicion that it might hold some important information still stood, but their inability to read it –even though Hermione had gone through all the books in the library that even mentioned the possibility of hiding text—had considerably cooled off Harry’s expectations about the little black book, and he didn’t bring it with him the next week either. Not that he even remembered about it once he reached the Room of Requirement, because Marco –undoubtedly intentionally— mentioned that Lockhart had found the ‘perfect way’ to lift the mood in the school now that he believed the attacks to be over. A very much apprehensive Harry spent the entirety of the time trying to wheedle the details out of Marco, who didn’t provide any more information until right before Harry left, when Marco told him there would be no training the next day, because Harry would need to be well rested if they wanted the school to have any chance to survive what was to come.

Harry seriously considered to go camping into the Forbidden Forest for the remainder of the week.

 

* * *

 

 

Thanks to quidditch, Harry wasn’t as well rested as Marco had suggested he should be by Sunday, and he soon regretted it. Harry wasn’t prone to having headaches, his health was as good as it had been when he was Ace --although, fortunately, he wasn't narcoleptic this time around-- but lack of sleep combined with the… decor… the poor castle was subjected to proved to be a horrible combination not even he could withstand unscathed.

He had never paid much attention to holidays, not having really celebrated any until last year, and Valentine’s Day had barely ever crossed his mind. He now wished he could still say the same.

Gilderoy Lockhart should not be allowed anywhere near a room, much less with decorations in hand and his own mind to come up with the distribution. Pink flowers everywhere, heart-shaped confetti falling from the enchanted ceiling, _Lockhart dressed in pink_ … A quick look around proved that people were divided into three different reactions: a sickly pale green shade to their faces, uncontrollable fits of giggles or outright laughter or, uncomprehendingly enough, dreamy expressions on some faces.

There were a few exceptions, like McGonagall’s impressively pissed off face or Snape’s murderous one. Harry never thought he would admit something like this, but for once he shared Snape’s thoughts; they both wanted to murder Lockhart.

Dumbledore looked delighted –Harry had no doubt now that he was a sadist and had unleashed this horror on them purposefully— and perched on his high chair was Marco, so obviously laughing despite his bird form that Harry was surprised no one was pointing at him, or noticing his reaction at all.

And that was just the beginning. Lockhart had somehow managed to force twelve poor dwarves into playing love card courier, and even had the gall –Harry didn’t doubt by then the guy had a death wish, but he still was amazed by his level of stupidity— to suggest they ask Snape for a love potion. Harry could practically see the daggers flying off Snape’s eyes.

Throughout the day, people was subjected to the very embarrassing experience of receiving Valentine’s cards by grumpy dwarves –some students had mysteriously disappeared for the day, no doubt in search of a remote hole to hide themselves in— and Harry’s hope that his status as the suspected Heir of Slytherin would keep any such messages at bay was destroyed in the afternoon, when he received a musical Valentine. In the middle of the hallway. In front of a huge group of first years. If he ever caught whoever sent it, he would kill them.

His only consolation was that Marco, who had been following him all day –and laughing, the asshole— was nowhere to be seen.

Harry struggled with the dwarf in an attempt to escape, the damned thing –who had all the reason in the world to be angry, but that didn’t mean Harry would cooperate— broke his school bag while attempting to hold Harry back so he would listen, and of course Draco Malfoy had to show up then. Harry swore the pest was following him, there was no way he could have such bad timing.

Chaos ensued then as Percy Weasley appeared. The dwarf attacked Harry, sang the humiliating song –Harry could have endured it while drunk as an adult, but for a sober and hormonal twelve year old it was too much to handle.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had dragged Ron into a bathroom –Hermione was standing guard outside, despite their half joking invitation to come in, as they had spent so much time in a girls' bathroom and so Hermione could enter the boys’ one— to help clean his books from the ink that had soaked them when the dwarf ripped his bag and the inkwell shattered upon falling.

Ron was still holding Riddle’s diary in one hand. Malfoy had picked it up earlier and, though at this point neither of them cared much about the book –it had proven to be useless to them no matter what they did, after all, Harry didn’t know why he had even had the book with him when they had decided to go to the library— they weren’t going to let Malfoy get away with stealing from them, so they had been ready to curse the idiot if it was necessary.

“Hey, look,” said Ron, and showed him the diary.

“What?” Harry asked, not seeing anything different.

“It’s dry.”

Ron was right, not a single drop of ink marred the old book’s cover. Harry blinked.

“Cool. That trick would be useful.” As he turned to his practically ruined Transfigurations book, Harry thought he should research that spell to keep his things dry whenever his bag broke again. Annoyingly, ripping people’s schoolbags was one of the students’ favourite pranks.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t long after the disastrous Valentine’s Day when things calmed enough for Harry to be able to slip away from his classmates without anyone following him. The long weeks of calm, with no trace of the monster or the Heir of Slytherin to shake the school, had made the students relax, most of them willing to believe it was all over simply because they desperately wished for any reason to stop being terrified of an imminent attack.

Harry could have laughed when he finally –after months of absence— was able to enter his and Marco’s classroom, and he might have done exactly that, but when Marco, who no doubt had felt he was here, arrived, Harry was relatively calm.

He didn’t want to train today, that was basically all they had been doing lately, and before that their conversations had centred mostly on the Chamber and the attacks. Harry wanted something different, so he plopped down in one of the chairs, crossed his arms on a desk and, as he had done many times since last summer, asked Marco to tell him a story from the time after he had died.

 

* * *

 

 

Things continued in that calm way for weeks afterwards, and eventually people stopped glaring at Harry whenever they noticed him coming back from the classroom or the Room of Requirement when no attacks happened after his disappearances.

Life had settled back into a mostly uneventful routine again: classes, homework, insane quidditch training sessions thanks to an obsessive Oliver Wood, getting his ass kicked by Marco during training, occasional study afternoons in the library with Ron and Hermione… then someone trashed the second year boys’ bedroom and the diary of T. M. Riddle was stolen. That was when Harry remembered about the mysterious book that might contain some useful information. And it most likely did, seeing as someone had deemed it important enough to break in and steal it.

Remembering about the diary led to Harry finally telling Marco about finding it and how they couldn’t managed to read it, even though Hermione had taken it as a personal challenge at one point. She had finally been forced to admit defeat and give up.

“Was there a name in the diary?” Marco asked at the end of Harry’s story.

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

Marco rolled his eyes.

“I was here fifty years ago. Maybe I remember the student. I could check the name and maybe, I don’t know, track them down or something. See what they know.”

“Oh.” Harry nodded. Of course, why hadn’t he thought they could ignore the diary and just try to find the owner? “Riddle. T. M. Riddle.”

Marco letting out a very much heartfelt curse that would make half the teachers faint was not the reaction Harry had expected.

“What?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Marco said, and Harry just blinked. He hadn’t heard that name before. “That’s Voldemort’s real name.”

“Oh. Okay, fuck. What’s Voldemort’s old diary doing here?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of surprised he had a diary, he wasn’t the type for that sort of thing.”

Harry imagined Voldemort hunched over a desk, scribbling ‘ _Dear Diary’_ on the top of a blank page and snorted. No, just no, he didn’t think the guy was the type, either.

“What do you think it’s doing here?”

Marco shrugged.

“Not sure, but I bet you whatever you want that it’s not a coincidence.”

“So what? You think he put a spell in it that allows to open the Chamber? That’d explain why there have been no attacks while I had it.” Which, if Harry thought of it, didn’t bode well for the school now that he _didn’t_ have it anymore.

“Perhaps, but I don’t see him trusting any of his followers with that information, much less letting them tell one of their children.”

“Great,” Harry muttered sarcastically, leaning back on his chair until only the back legs were touching the floor. “To sum things up; the attacks will start again any time now and we have no idea how they’re happening.”

Marco frowned, which was basically agreement given the circumstances.

Harry sighed.

“Guess we’re on the lookout for small black books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote second year, I had a lot of trouble working on this part. My memory being fresher on the movie than on the book, I hadn't remembered that Harry has the diary for about three months, instead of how in the movie it looks like he only has it a few days. I couldn't have Marco anywhere near that diary, because the moment he approached it he would've felt Voldemort's soul fragment, and then there would've been no more Chamber of Secrets, which wouldn't do here. I hope the way I had him not seeing it didn't look too forced. That's the same reason I couldn't have Harry talk to Riddle, because the moment he did he would've shown Marco the diary, so here he didn't think much about the diary being dry, and just believed it to be a handy spell.
> 
> Also, I've modified the Valentine's Day scenes a little, because while rewriting it I noticed something that didn't make sense: February 14th, 1993, was a Sunday, and it says so in the book, but after the dwarf sings Harry's song, Percy appears to disperse the students by sending them to class. I had to change that.


	13. The monster

As a part of their plan, they had decided that Marco —who thanks to his small phoenix form could look around as much as he wanted without really attracting attention— would begin to attend all the meals in the Great Hall, in hopes that whoever had the diary —their main theory was that the thief had been a Gryffindor, but there existed the possibility someone else had entered the dorm in a similar way to how Harry and Ron had entered the Slytherin common room— would take it there and they could recover it.

Today was quidditch day —Harry was almost sure Dobby wouldn’t be suicidal enough to try to test Marco’s patience by showing up again— and he was heading for the stairs when he heard the monster again.

“ _Kill this time… let me rip… tear…_ ”

He wasn’t as startled as he would have been in another situation because he had half expected it, but he still jumped in place, alerting Ron and Hermione that something was wrong.

Right away, Hermione realized something —which she didn’t tell them— and ran to the library. An hour later Harry would want to beat himself up for not realizing how dangerous it was to let her run alone with the monster up in the castle.

The match hadn’t even started when Professor McGonagall came, announcing it had been cancelled, sent everybody to their common rooms and took Ron and Harry to the hospital wing, where now they stood over a petrified Hermione.

Harry shook his head when Professor McGonagall asked him if he knew what Hermione —and the Ravenchaw girl who had been petrified alongside her— had been doing with a mirror, and he turned his head when he heard wings flapping, just in time to see Marco enter the room. Marco’s eyes landed on the still figure of Hermione, then looked at Harry and shook his head, telling him the monster had escaped again.

Professor McGonagall escorted them to their common room —she didn’t comment when Marco tagged along, and Ron was too shocked to pay him any mind— and once there gave a set of instructions. Basically, they couldn’t go anywhere outside their common rooms unaccompanied, and the teachers would escort the students to their classes. All activities, quidditch included, had been cancelled.

Harry looked at Marco. Now their training sessions were officially over; if anybody caught Harry sneaking out alone and there was another attack it probably wouldn’t matter that Dumbledore knew he wasn’t behind them.

That McGonagall had said the school might be closed wasn’t encouraging at all. They needed to fix this mess as soon as possible.

As soon as she was gone, the students began to talk, and it was the kind of nonsense you could expect from a bunch of scared kids. Harry and Ron, still shocked by the sight of a petrified Hermione, dragged themselves to a couch and sat down, ignoring the rest of the room. Marco, who had stayed when McGonagall had left, landed on the armrest next to Harry and pressed his warm body against the his arm. Harry ran his fingers over Marco’s head. He knew, had they been alone, Marco would have given him a hug —and Harry wasn’t ashamed to admit he really needed one right now— but transforming in a room full of students was out of the question.

Ron and Harry didn’t talk much after that and, when Marco tensed some fifteen minutes later, Harry turned to him, his pulse accelerating at the thought that the monster might be back.

Marco must have guessed what he was thinking, because he shook his head in a clear negative and then pointed with one of his wings to the closed windows nearby, letting him know that _something_ was going on.

Harry stood up and walked the short distance to the windows, Marco following him, and opened one to let him out. He knew Marco would tell him what was going on as soon as he could.

When he closed the window again and turned around, Harry realized that he had become the focus of the whole room’s attention.

“What was that bird?” an older student asked suspiciously. Harry swore if anybody dared to accuse him of being the Heir of Slytherin after _Hermione_ had been petrified, he would kill them.

“That was Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix,” he answered with what technically was the truth, and wasn’t surprised by the mix of surprise and incredulity his response elicited.

Before anybody could stupidly earn themselves a punch to the face, Fred Weasley spoke.

“Yeah, that’s him. Got a great sense of humour, that bird.”

Next to him, George nodded.

“Clapped at us when we flooded the main staircase a couple years ago.”

And, just like that, the tension dissipated. No one could argue that the Weasley twins were the students currently at Hogwarts that had visited the Headmaster’s office the most, and everybody was eager for a chance to talk about anything other than the attacks. Fred and George’s pranking history would do nicely.

 

* * *

 

 

_If Ace had ever wondered how it felt to have your blood freeze in your veins, he knew now. He had been asleep on a table in the mess hall —a sight so common no one had bothered to wake him— when loud and numerous footsteps woke him. No one in the group had stopped when he walked to the deck and groggily asked what was the matter, so he had followed them._

_Pushing his way through a mass of shocked crewmembers, he was hit with the sight of Thatch fallen on the floor, a bloody knife protruding from his back and blood staining his usually white shirt. Two nurses knelt next to him, but they were shaking their heads and tears were pooling in their eyes._

_Refusing to believe what that meant, Ace’s gaze slid away from them and his eyes met Thatch’s unseeing ones._

 

* * *

 

 

Marco arrived at Hagrid’s cabin just as he could feel Albus and his unwelcome companion leave the headmaster’s office. He didn’t enter, however, and instead waited outside, flying to Albus as soon as he saw him approach. The Minister of Magic —Cornelius Fudge, a ridiculously incompetent man with an ego far too huge to fit his body— looked at him in clear fascination. Albus petted his head, smiled and offered him a lemon drop.

You couldn’t live with Albus for so long and not become fond of the little sweets.

Hagrid received them with a crossbow aimed straight at Albus’ face, but lowered it, flustered, when he realized who it was.

Marco didn’t pay attention as they talked —he knew how this was going to end, Fudge needed to make it look like he was doing something, and wouldn’t listen to Albus telling him that taking Hagrid wouldn’t solve anything— and instead flew to Hagrid’s shoulder, patting him on the head with a wing. Hagrid was a nice guy, Marco had liked him since he was an eleven year old who had followed him around the school for three whole weeks, fascinated by the real life phoenix he had discovered flying through the Forbidden Forest —where, incidentally, Hagrid hadn’t been supposed to be in the first place. It was ridiculous to think that anybody would seriously consider that he might be responsible for the attacks, and this was just another reason why they needed to resolve this as soon as possible.

When Marco caught the monster, that thing was _so_ dead.

Having been distracted by his thoughts, Marco hadn’t noticed the new presence until it was close to the cabin, and he would have cursed if he had been able to when he did notice it. Whatever that man wanted, things were about to turn uglier.

Of course, the asshole known as Lucius Malfoy had taken advantage of the situation to create a worst case scenario by getting Albus suspended —Marco had to wonder how many threats, blackmail and bribery that had taken.

Marco had to leave Hagrid’s shoulder when it was time for him to leave, and was surprised by the last _, completely inconspicuous_ , thing Hagrid said.

“If anyone wanted ter find out some stuf , all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders. That’d lead ’emright! That’s all I’msayin’.”

The only one there who would stay at the school was Marco —whom nobody had even mentioned, and they had something coming if they thought he would leave with Albus— which meant those words were for him. He had to admit he was flattered: Marco had always known that Hagrid considered him smart, but to trust him, supposedly a bird, to do something enough to tell him that when there was nobody else who could follow the instructions was just another proof of why Marco liked Hagrid.

_Spiders, huh?_

Hadn’t Ace mentioned something about spiders running from the first scene?

Marco looked down at Fang, who had made an admirable effort _not_ to bite Lucius Malfoy’s leg off.

_Guess I have to take care of you now._

 

* * *

 

 

The announcement of Dumbledore’s suspension the next morning did nothing but worsen the mood, and the news of Hagrid’s arrest garnered a varied range of reactions: a small part of the student body was incredulous and didn’t quite believe Hagrid could be behind the attacks; there had been also some mockery, mostly from the Slytherins and notoriously from Draco Malfoy; but the most common reaction, curiously, wasn’t relief or an attempt at hope, it was fear. Though that was, probably, more due to Dumbledore’s absence.

Harry himself had reacted in a mix of outraged incredulity and murderous protectiveness at the absolutely stupid idea that anybody could believe Hagrid was responsible for all this. The only reason he didn’t charge at a group of fifth year Slytherins was the letter that hit him square on the forehead. He looked up in time to see a nondescript brown owl fly away.

Ron, who had been shocked at the two announcements and now was staring at his food, didn’t pay him any attention.

Harry was curious about who could have written to him, as he had never received any correspondence since he had started Hogwarts aside from Christmas presents, and sat down to open his letter. He immediately recognized the handwriting as Marco’s.

_We need to talk._

_But, as I know you won’t stay still as things are, I’ll explain some things now._

_Hagrid was the student expelled fifty years ago. Riddle ‘caught’ him but the ‘monster’ escaped. It wasn’t the one we want, of course, but it was a monster, at least by wizard standards. He was a third year, and thought it a good idea to keep a baby acromantula (a type of dangerous giant spider) as a pet, which served as a good cover. Fudge —the excuse for a wizard that is the Minister of Magic— was worried about his image in all this, and he decided to arrest Hagrid to make it look like he is doing something. About Albus’ suspension, that was Lucius Malfoy’s doing. If we didn’t know for sure Draco doesn’t know anything, I’d say Malfoy is the one behind this whole thing._

_Hagrid said something before they took him, but I’m not telling you here because I know you, and I’d rather you didn’t do anything stupid without backup._

_Go to your bedroom as soon as you’re done with your classes, I’ll meet you there._

_Don’t attract attention to yourself._

“Who’s that from?”

Harry jumped in place at Ron’s unexpected question, and the letter was taken from his hands before he could hide it.

“Ron!” he exclaimed, and tried to recover the letter, but, as he didn’t want to hurt Ron, couldn’t do it before he started to read.

Ron’s face changed to surprise.

“What the…? Where’d you get this?” Harry frowned and looked around, glad to notice no one was paying attention to them. “Riddle? You know something I don’t about him?” Ron looked up at him, and his gaze was both hurt and annoyed.

Harry’s eyes met Marco’s, who was again perched on the now empty high chair, and Marco made his impression of a shrug with his wings. Harry sighed.

“I’ll tell you later, okay? When we’re alone.” When Ron nodded reluctantly, Harry extended his hand and hid the letter as soon as he had it.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry hadn’t really intended to keep Marco a secret from Ron and Hermione, at least not after he had realized he trusted them as much as he had trusted his crew when he had been Ace. It just had never occurred to him to actually _tell them_. After the incident with the Philosopher Stone, he had been too shocked by the realization that his dreams weren’t just dreams to think about much of anything else. Then there had been meeting Marco face to face: he had been so happy and so distracted that, once again, the notion that he could tell his friends had slipped his mind, and with the beginning of the school year… well, nobody could argue there had been plenty of distractions. And, also, a part of him had wanted to keep Marco for himself for a while.

However, now that Harry had the perfect chance —and it was really more of an obligation at this point— to tell Ron, he was _nervous_.

The two of them were alone in their room, the rest of their year’s boys down in the common room doing homework, and Harry was making a great show of not noticing how impatient Ron was. He was aware of how unbelievable his story was, and he would much rather have Marco as moral support —and proof that he wasn’t, in fact, crazy— when he told it. Ron had given him a funny enough look when Harry had thrown the silencing and the alarm —in case someone decided to go to bed early— spells he knew at the door.

“Well?” Ron asked, apparently tired that his not really subtle displays of impatience weren’t working.

“Just wait a moment, I need something before I explain.”

“What?” Ron asked again, eyebrows going up. He probably was thinking something about the lines of how Harry wasn’t going to get anything just by pacing in circles around the room.

Harry was saved from answering by a tapping on the window. Ron was startled when he practically jumped toward it and pulled it open with far more force than was strictly necessary.

Marco flew in, and Harry mouthed ‘don’t transform’ at him before closing the window and turning back to face Ron. Ron was looking at Marco.

“What’s got Dumbledore’s bird to do with this?”

“Well, you see Ron…” Harry moved to sit on the bed, and gestured for Ron to do the same. Marco settled down on Harry’s pillow. “This is a weird story, so let me finish before you interrupt me, okay?” Ron nodded. “Since I can remember, I’ve had these dreams…”

And Harry told him about his dreams, a short version of his past as Ace —they _were_ trying to get this over with before the other boys came up here, a long biography wouldn’t do— the Whitebeard Pirates, Marco and what had happened last year. He had just started with his meeting with Marco last summer when Ron seemed to have enough of just making incredulous faces.

“You’re not serious,” he said, giving Marco a sceptical look.

Harry looked at Marco.

“Do you mind?”

Giving his bird shrug, Marco flew off the bed and transformed in the middle of the room. Harry was glad for the silencing spell when Ron fell off his bed with a startled yell.

“Believe us now?” And, of course, Marco couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Not that Harry really minded, but this situation needed to be handled with tact and even _he_ realized that. Marco was far too amused.

Having Ron now much more willing to believe them, Harry finished the rest of the story, now centring more on the Chamber of Secrets and the monster they weren’t any closer to identify.

“So, you’ve had fifty years and you don’t know what it is?”

Harry snickered at Marco’s annoyed expression. It was good to see he wasn’t the only one to think he had slacked off there.

“I was busy.”

“With what?” Ron asked, scepticism back now that he had more or less accepted the fact that Harry had been a pirate in another life and the headmaster’s bird had been his crewmate back then.

“Voldemort.” Marco scoffed when Ron flinched. “It’s just a name, get used to it.”

There was a short silence.

"All clear?" Harry asked Ron, who nodded still a bit dumbfounded. He turned to Marco. "What did Hagrid say?"

 

* * *

 

 

Ron Weasley cared about Harry, he really did. Harry was his best friend, the first friend he had made outside of his family, and usually Ron was more than willing to be a part of any adventure. But this one, this one he was more than glad to sit out. Don't get him wrong, had Harry been alone, Ron would have swallowed his fear and gone along.

But Harry wasn't alone

No, Harry had this friend from another life who apparently was super strong —"stronger than anything you can think of" had been Harry's words once they were alone— and they both had assured him he didn't have to accompany them when he had been unable to hide his reaction at the mention of _giant spiders_.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had hated the rumours about him being the one behind the attacks. However, after Hermione had been petrified, people had backed off and finally realized he wasn't the culprit. Ernie Macmillan had even apologized for being such an idiot about it.

Harry would much rather the rumours to be still going around if that meant Hermione wouldn't have been petrified.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the first class of Defence Against the Dark Arts after the double attack, Hagrid's following arrest and Dumbledore's suspension, and Harry had taken to defacing one of his useless defence books in an attempt to keep his hands away from Lockhart's neck. After one too many comments from the idiot on how he had known Hagrid was a bad guy, Ron had decided to follow Harry's example.

These past few days, Marco had been scouting the castle in search of the now practically nonexistent spiders. They knew they had to be in the forest, Marco had said there was no other place around here where an acromantula could live, and they were hoping to have an idea of which area of the immense forest to search in.

After having to suffer through this class, Harry decided that, independently of what information they had, they would go tonight.

Whether they found the spiders or not, Harry needed to kill something.

 

* * *

 

 

The trip into the forest, Marco decided, had been mostly a waste of time. The only information Aragog —Hagrid's former pet— had given them was that his kind feared the monster, and that was something anyone could guess by the way the spiders had fled the castle.

The only good thing that had come out of the encounter was the workout the spiders provided. Really, Aragog should have rethought his order to kill them when Ace had burst out laughing. But no, the spiders had attacked and now the family was considerably smaller. There wouldn't be any left if Aragog hadn't been smart and conceded defeat after one too many of his children had been set on fire.

Unsurprisingly, Ace had a talent for fire related magic.

But they weren't any closer to identifying the monster or locating the Chamber of Secrets.

 

* * *

 

 

"What about Myrtle?" Ron asked a couple of days later while Lockhart escorted the group of second year Gryffindors to History of Magic.

"They asked her," Harry whispered, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, "she couldn't tell them much."

"Maybe she remembers something else now," said Ron, copying Harry's tone. Harry gave him an inquiring look. "You know, now that she's gotten past the shock of having just died and all that."

"Could be," Harry agreed. Even if they didn't get much from her, anything beat one of Binns' lectures. He looked at Lockhart. "We need to get rid of the idiot first."

Which proved to be ridiculously easy. Lockhart was so convinced of the uselessness of the security measures —though it probably was just fear of the whole situation and of getting caught in the middle of something monster-related— that he took the first chance they gave him to leave the students he was responsible for alone.

Slipping away from their classmates was easy enough, but unfortunately McGonagall found them before they made it to Myrtle's bathroom. It was a statement to how exhausted she was that she believed Harry's stuttered and completely unconvincing lie about wanting to go see Hermione. It was sheer luck —not that Harry complained— that she had announced earlier in the day that the Mandrakes were ready and the cure would be complete soon. So, of course, they wanted to tell their petrified friend.

That was why, instead of the bathroom, Harry and Ron headed for the hospital wing. McGonagall had been so moved by their story that she had let them go, and having the deputy headmistress' permission Madam Pomfrey had no choice but to let them in.

Hermione, naturally, was completely unresponsive to her visitors, but Harry noticed something he had missed when he saw her after the attack.

"Ron," he called to draw his attention, and pointed to Hermione's clenched hand. There was a paper clutched in it.

Harry had to be careful about getting the paper out of Hermione’s rock hard fist without ripping it, and once he held it he noticed it was an old page from a book —and the fact alone that Hermione had done that to a book proved how important it was. Smoothing it out, Harry read in a low whisper:

_Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it._

Beneath the text, Hermione had written _pipes_.

Harry felt like an idiot. That counted as ‘inside the walls’, of course.

The pieces began to fall into place all by themselves. Parseltongue, people seeing the monster through flooded floors, a camera, a ghost, a mirror… He remembered when he had been talking to Dumbledore and Hagrid had entered with a dead rooster. And the spiders, of course, those fucking spiders.

“The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!” Ron exclaimed. “What if it’s a bathroom?”

Now Harry _really_ wanted to punch himself. It was _so obvious._ So much that it explained why no one had thought of it.

“We need to find Marco.”

 

* * *

 

 

He was going to kill those idiots.

Since the last attack, Marco had been patrolling the school almost nonstop and keeping his senses sharp in search of that damned monster. He had been far from the hospital wing when he felt the two brats heading there, and they left before he arrived. When Minerva’s voice resounded throughout the school, they had already left the place.

_“All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.”_

Ace and Ron had been near the room already, and Marco could tell they turned in that direction as soon as the order came. He, too, headed that way, flying as fast as he dared with all the students now practically stampeding toward their common rooms.

Something had happened, and he hadn’t felt anything. Just students walking around; there were some who felt the situation was a sort of adventure and tried to move on their own from time to time, but, as the monster wasn’t up, Marco left them alone. In fact, the monster hadn’t been up in the castle for a while.

When he arrived, around half the professors were present at the staff room, and Ace and Ron were hiding in a closet. Minerva was the last of the competent professors to arrive, looking more sombre than Marco had ever seen her.

And she had a reason.

A student had been taken to the Chamber. When the name Ginny Weasley dropped from Minerva’s lips, he could feel Ace tense and Ron almost lose it for a moment. Things had gone from bad to disastrous, and his mind was working so furiously that he didn’t even pay attention when Lockhart entered and the rest of the staff practically ganged up on him, telling him it was his moment to prove himself.

_A message below the first one._

The moment the professors left, Ace and Ron exited the closet. Ace was so tense he looked like he would snap at any moment and Ron resembled remarkably a muggle sheet of paper.

Sensing the adults were moving farther away, Marco transformed. The words that came out of Ace’s mouth thoroughly surprised him.

“We know where the Chamber is. And what the monster is.”

Well, that was unexpected. Useful, though, and very convenient.

“Really?”

“It’s a basilisk, and the entrance is in Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“Fuck,” he cursed. “We searched the place.”

“I think you need parseltongue to open it.”

There was no time to wonder how someone other than Voldemort was doing it, then.

“Alright. I need to get something before we go.” He turned to Ron. “Ron, you should wait-“

“No,” Ron interrupted.

“Ron, we can take care of it,” said Ace.

“My sister’s down there. I’m going.”

That wasn’t something either of them could argue against.


	14. The Heir of Slytherin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update. I'm at France for the entire month and it took forever to get internet working on my computer.

Marco had told  Ace and Ron  to head to the bathroom while he took a short detour. He hoped Severus wouldn’t mind he had raided his potions’ supplies, but Ace wasn’t anywhere near his former shape and a basilisk was out of his league, even much more out of Ron’s.  Marco  intende d to take on the thing himself — he had been wanting to  do so  for years, after all— but it was better to be prepared for anything. That was why, as an afterthought, he had gone to Albus’ office and picked up the Sorting Hat. He didn’t know what  Albus  had meant when he  had  told him the hat would help whoever was in need of it, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to take it.

He had to wonder, as he approached the bathroom, why Lockhart was with  Ace snf Ron  when, by all intent s  and purposes,  he  should be far from the school by now.

Ace’s wand aimed at  Lockhart  told him everything he needed to know. Apparently, it was time for revenge. Marco wouldn’t interfere, the guy had more than earned it.

Lockhart gave him  an i nterested look when he flew in — though Marco had the feeling  he  was more likely thinking how his image would improve with  a phoenix  of his own  instead of why he might be here in the first place — and no one commented on the old hat and moleskin bag he was carrying.

They all ignored  Lockhart' s attempts at convincing them to let him leave and Ace hissed at the sinks, which just parted open to reveal a dark, deep tunnel of which they couldn’t see the bottom.

When Lockhart tried to talk his way out again, Ron kicked him in.

Ace and Ron  slid down the pipe and Marco flew in after them. It was dark, damp and dirty.  It landed on a dark tunnel equally dark, damp and dirty, and everyone but Marco ended up covered in grime.

Ace lit his wand and they advanced forward through the tunnel .  As they moved, animal bones began to appear in their path, proving that something had been eating down there. Soon, they stumbled upon the giant shed skin of a snake. It was huge, but of course a basilisk that had been down here for a thousand years would be that big, and Marco found himself eager to fight it. This promised to be the most interesting fight he had had in centuries  — which, really, was kind of depressing, considering the fights he used to get into.

Unsurprisingly, Lockhart took advantage of the distraction to try to attack them and escape.

Marco didn’t bother to intervene. The idiot had stolen Ron’s wand, he could feel the memory spell would backfire before he fired it.

The result, however, was a convenient one.

The tunnel caved in, separating the group. Ron and Lockhart were left in the half heading the way they had come in, while Ace and Marco could advance forward.

“Ron!” Ace yelled at the wall.

 “I’m here!” Ron yelled back. “I’m okay — this git’s not, though — he got blasted by the wand—”

A thud followed by a loud “ow!”  signalled  that Ron had most likely hit Lockhart.

“What now?” Ron said. “Can’t Marco kick the wall in or something?”

Marco  transformed, ignoring the possibility that Lockhart could hear him. He would deal with the idiot later.

“I won’t.”  He understood that Ron wanted to save his sister, he really did, but it would be safer for everybody involved if  he  stayed behind.

“What?! Why not?!” Ron demanded, sounding both angry and desperate.

“We’re up against a basilisk, and who knows what else.” This place messed with his haki, he could only feel the two of them and some rats nearby.  Slytherin had outdone himself with the warding, no arguing there. “You wait  here and keep an eye on Lockhart, we’ll take care of it.”

Another “ow!” told them Ron had released his frust ration on Lockhart .

“You better get my sister back!”

“We will, Ron,” Ace promised.  “Just wait  here.”

Looking at Ace, they both nodded and turned around, walking further down the tunnel. The place was creepy, and it didn’t get any better when they came face to face with a solid wall that had two entwined snakes carved  i n it, no doubt another barrier for anyone who wasn’t  a  parselmouth.

* * *

 

 

Harry stopped himself when he was about to order the wall to open. There was something he would rather be sure of beforehand.

“Before we go in,” he said, “are you sure a basilisk’s eyes aren’t one of the few things that can actually kill you?”

Next to him, Marco smiled, but they both pretended  Harry  hadn’t sounded worried.

“It’s not the first of these things  I’ve fought .”

Curious, Harry turned to him.

“Really? When’d you fight one?”

“A couple millennia ago, in what now is Peru.”

There it was, a reminder  that Harry didn’t know exactly how long Marco had been around, only that it had been  long . Unfortunately, now was not the moment to ask. He ma de a mental note to do so later;  he had been putting this conversation off for almost a year now.

Nodding, he looked at the wall and ordered it to open.

The ch amber they saw past the now parted  wall was even creepier than the corridor that had preceded it –and, in any other occasion, it would have screamed ‘adventure’, but now things were too serious for that. It was dark, illuminated in a greenish light and full of huge, towering columns.

Ha r ry looked at Marco, knowing that he would warn him if the basilisk was around, and  Marco  nodded to the other en d of the chamber, where an ugly  stone statue  of a man  stood as tall as the chamber. There was no giant snake in sight, which meant it was probably somehow behind it  — or maybe inside, the thing was big enough to easily fit a serpent the size of the skin they had seen. Between the statue’s feet, facedown, was the prone figure of Ginny Weasley and, forgetting  about  deadly basilisks, Harry ran to her, Marco following at a more sedate pace  — which told him  she  was at least alive.

Harry took her by the shoulders and tu rned her around. Ginny  was so pale that, hadn’t he already known  she wasn't , he would have thought she was dead. But she wasn’t, instead breathing weakly while Harry muttered uselessly for her to wake up.

Marco came to stand next to him, and it was only habit that allowed him to process with the little attention he was paying that  he  was standing guard over him, ready to attack at the slightest sign of danger.

“She won’t wake.”

Harr y raised his head to see a  dark haired boy  of around sixteen  leaning against a pillar nearby. There was something off about him, but he didn’t bother to try to figure out what it was.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Before the boy could answer, Marco did.

“That’s Tom Riddle.”

“What? Voldemort? Great,” muttered Harry.

Riddle  looked surprised, but recovered quickly.

“You know who I am? I’m impressed, though I can’t say the same about you.” He turned to Harry. “You,  however, I have heard about . You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

“Why does he look like that? That’s nothing like what Voldemort looked like last year,” Harry asked Marco, ignoring teenage Voldemort.

“I don’t know,” Marco admitted. “He’s Voldemort, but as he was back in school. He doesn’t feel at all like the guy from last year. Guess that explains  why  I didn’t notice him.” Marco looked frustrated, but also as if he was piercing together a mystery. “And he’s not entirely there.” His eyes slid to the floor, and for the first time Harry noticed the black diary open next to Ginny.

“That is because I am not entirely out of the diary yet,” Riddle said calmly, still leaning against the column as he had been before.

“Wait,  you’re  in there,” Harry looked at the diary, then at  Riddle , “but also there?” That didn’t make any sense at all.

“I am a memory, preserved in a diary for fifty years.”

Harry blinked, that didn’t make sense, either.

“Whate ver.” He looked at Marco. “D o we kill him?”

That got Riddle to at least move away from the column. He looked surprised.

“Kill me? You cannot kill me.”

Harry scoffed.

“Of course we can.” He pulled his wand out of his pocket where it had stayed since he hadn’t needed to aim it at Lockhart anymore.

“Curious… You don’t act at all like I expected.”

Not in the mood for a conversation about how the world expected Harry Potter  to act, he threw a cutting hex  at  Riddle . It hit him, but strangely in didn’t have any effect. That was when he realized that what he had noticed off about  Riddle  was the fact  that  he was blurred, almost like he was a ghost, but different to the ones up at the school.  He seemed almost entirely solid.

While this happened, Marco had knelt down and was now holding the diary.

“Ace,” he called, “try burning this.”

“Ace?”

They both ignored Riddle, and Harry fired an  incendio  at the book. It rebounded, and hit Marco, who was still holding the diary, square on the chest. Blue flames sprang to life and devoured the normal fire before it could even touch the fabric of  Marco ’s shirt.

“How did you do that?” They both turned to see Riddle looking in fascination at the spot where Mar co should have been badly burnt , his eyes glinting with what could be defined as hunger. For the knowledge, Har ry guessed. Not that he could replicate  it.

“None  of your business.  What’d you do to Ginny?” he demanded, going back to what mattered here.

“Strictly speaking,  I  did nothing to her, at least not at first. She did it to herself.”

Harry glared, not caring at all about the word games  Riddle  seemed to like.

“Whatever it is, undo it.”

“Why? That would be against my own interests.”

“Undo it or we’ll make you,” he threatened, and Riddle just smiled.

“I think that just failed, Harry.”

Harry  gritted his teeth.

“We’ll keep trying. Something will work.”

“You can do that, I suppose,” Riddle  said, nonchalant, “but, while you do, we can talk. I have been most anxious to meet you, after all, Harry.”

“Oh, really?” Harry tried the cutting hex on the diary, but it again rebounded and hit Marco, who didn’t even react.  He  was busy studying the book.

“Of course. You seem to know who I am, which, I’ll admit, is impressive.” Riddle smiled pleasantly. “By what I gathered, not many seem to have figured out my identity, as I had intended. But passable deductive skills don’t explain how you, a skinny boy with no  extraordinary magical talent,  managed to defeat the greatest  wizard of all time.  How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

“Oh,” Harry blinked, “that’s it? Hurt pride?”

He would have sworn Riddle’s smile faltered for the shortest  of  moment s .

“No, it’s mere curiosity. How could such an impossible occurrence actually happen?”

“Why is Ginny’s presence in the diary as well?” Marco asked, interrupting. Teen Voldemort didn’t seem too pleased about that, but he recovered so quickly Harry wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking at him. H e had to admit it,  he  had great  acting skills.

“That is because she poured her soul into it with each entry she wrote, with every secret she shared with me, every thought she-“

“I see,” Marco interrupted, again, and suddenly Harry was sure he was doing it  on purpose.  Marco  threw the Sorting H at at Harry, who caught it midair. “Why don’t you try talking to it? It’s been around for a  long time, maybe it has an idea. ”

“Why don’t  you ?” Harry retorted.

“I have a cover to maintain.”

Harry looked dubiously at the hat. He didn’t fancy another session of mind reading.

“You know,” Harry said  to Riddle,  more to stall than anything else, “you’re not the most powerful wizard around. As far as wizards go, I bet Dumbledore is stronger, and then there are the non-wizards that can beat you, too.”

“ Non-wizards ?” Riddle had been about to say something when Harry had mentioned  Dumbledore,  but that second comment had offended him far more.

“Yeah,” he gestured at Marco with his head. “And I’m stronger than you, too.”

“He is  not  a wizard?” If Ginny hadn’t been unconscious a nd  barely holding  on to life before him, Harry would have laughed at the shocked and horrified expression that took over  Riddle ’s face, expression that turned to hatred as he watched. “A  muggle  at Hogwarts? In Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber?!”

Whatever Riddle had planned for this meeting vanished then from his mind and, tense and furious, the you ng Lord Voldemort turned around  to  look at the giant statue  and hissed at it.

" Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four ."

“Finally,” Marco said, a slow grin stretching his lips.

As the mouth of the statue opened,  Marco  placed the bag he had been carrying next to Harry and stood up.

“Close your eyes until I tell you.”

Harry did as he was told, and he heard the sound of a huge body slithering down stone. He heard it hit the floor of the chamber, and Marco had yet to move.

“ Kill the man, but not the boy .” Riddle ordered.

Then, Harry heard Marco’s booted feet running, way faster than a normal human could, away from where Harry and Ginny were, to another part of the Chamber.

Riddle  began to laugh, but his laughter was cut short just as a blue flash of light burst behind Harry’s tightly closed lids, and mad, high and desperate hissing filled the cavernous space.

“…What?” Riddle breathed out, a  word Harry barely heard,  and Harry  chuckled.

“Bet you weren’t expecting that.”

“How did…? He’s a  muggle !”  Riddle  exclaimed, to himself more than to Harry.

“Ace, you can open your eyes,” he heard Marco’s voice. It wasn’t a yell, but it reverberated across the whole room.

Harry did.

“I said he wasn’t a wizard,” he told Riddle, “I never said he fit your definition of non-magical people.”

A look over at the fight –Marco was back to human form and was currently running left of the basilisk— proved  Marco  had gouged the serpents’ eyes out.  He  had blood on his legs to show how, exactly, he had done it.

Riddle was still staring and, Harry was sure, had he been any less shocked, he would probably be yelling about right now.

“You wanted to talk?”  Harry  asked, just to mess with him. He had no intention of answering any of  Riddle' s questions. The diary skidded across the floor when it repelled Harry’s blasting spell. It hit Ginny on the thigh and stopped there. “Sorry,” Harry told her, picking the thing up.

“He has called you ‘Ace’ twice,” Riddle said, forgoing his previous question, “why? You  are  Harry Potte r. ”

Harry  shrugged.

“I’m also Ace. It’d be weird if Marco called me Harry.”

Riddle was staring at him with a strange expression.

“What are you?”

That one Harry would answer. He grinned.

“A pirate.”

Riddle,  if the way he clenched his jaw was any indication, didn’t like that response.

“Don’t play with me, Harry. When the basilisk is done with your friend it will come for you. How fast you die depend s  on how much you cooperate.”

Harry blinked, stared at Riddle, then he blinked again and snorted.

“Oh, man, you’re  serious ? That snake’s got like two minutes of life left, depending on how much Marco wants to play.” As if to confirm his words, a loud crash reverberated through the whole cavern.

“Don’t be stupid, that your muggle friend can turn into a bird doesn’t mean he has anything to do against the greatest of all serpents.” He said it with such certainty that Harry was sure he had managed to convince himself of it.

Voldemort was arrogant, there was no doubt there. Arrogant, extremely confident, sure of himself… and obsessed with immortality.

Harry grinned.

“Nah, your snake doesn’t stand a chance. Even if Marco wasn’t so much stronger, it couldn’t kill him. Want to know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer, suspecting the no longer composed  Tom Riddle  wouldn’t give him one. “Marco is  immortal .”

Riddle’s enraged response was drowned by the sound of the basilisk’s body crashing into two pillars , taking them down with it .

Silence filled the chamber, the two  of them  staring at the scene of the thirty feet snake sprawled, unmoving, across the middle of the room.

“Looks like he didn’t feel like playing,” Harry said, unable to resist it, and rolled out of the way when Riddle lunged at him  — or, more precisely, at his wand.

When Harry knelt up, Marco was n ext to Ginny;  a thin, sharp  white f ang held in one hand. Then he  threw the fang at Harry, and  he  caught it. He didn’t have time to be confused before the lines about the basilisk he had read came to mind.

Deadly and venomous fangs. Huh.

The idea of poisoning a diary should be stupid, but paper you couldn’t cut nor burn wasn’t normal paper, so Harry didn’t think twice before sinking the fang into the book he still held in one hand.

A piercing shri ek filled the chamber, and ink  began to pour from the diary, down Harry’s hands, staining his knees and finally falling to the floor. Riddle, who had just  stood up after his failed attempt to get Harry’s wand, fell to the floor, writhing and screaming in pain.

Then he disappeared, as if he had never been there.

Harry looked at Marco, who just stared back at him.

“What the hell was that?”

“No idea.”

A soft moan drew their attention and they both turned to Ginny, who had woken without either of them noticing and now was sitting up, her skin having regained a healthier shade.

Her eyes took first in the dead basilisk –which was right in her line of sight— then  Marco  kneeling next to her and then moved to Harry, still on his knees a few feet away. She blanched again when she noticed the ruined diary in his hands.

She  turned into a sobbing mess, and began to mumble only half coherent apologies and explanations. Harry looked at Marco, who  signalled  that he should be the one to try to calm her. It made sense, of co urse, Harry was the one who knew her, but he didn’t like it any  more because of that.

"Harry — oh, Harry —  I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn't  say it in front of Percy —  it was me, Harry  —  but I  —  I s-swear I d - diddt  mean to —  R-Riddle made me,  he t-took me over —  and – how  did you kill that —  that thing? W-where's Riddle? The last thing I rremember i s him coming out of the diary — "

Standing up, Harry walked closer and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he told her, “Riddle’s gone, and the basilisk dead. You’re fine now.”

It didn’t work, though, because she continued.

"I'm going to be expelled! I've looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now I'll  have to leave and —  w-what'll Mum and Dad say?"

Harry looked at Marco for help, but  Marco  just shrugged, letting him know he was on his own here.  Marco  stood up, taking the bag and the hat with him.

Harry began to mutter reassurances at Ginny, trying to calm her down. Her sobbing diminished, but she was still distressed and worried sick about the consequences of what had happened.

“Ow.”

That drew their attention and the y turned to see Marco take the Sorting H at off, rubbing his head. A sword fell from the hat. Noticing them watching,  he  shrugged.

“I wanted t o see why Albus had sent the hat .”

Next to him, Ginny let out a breath. Her lips twitched, and Harry thought she would have laughed in another situation.

Marco bent down and picked up the sword. It was silver and had rubies on the hilt. In another life, it would have been an interesting addition to one’s treasure. Right now, Marco was studying it speculatively.

“It will do.”

Much to  Harry and Ginny's  confusion,  Marco  walked  over  to the basilisk’s head, opened its mouth and stabbed it right inside it.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, eyes following the now bloodied sword as  Marco  pulled it out.

“You can’t say you killed the basilisk with it if it doesn’t have blood.”

“Oh, right.” Harry hadn’t even thought they would need a cover story for the whole mess.

Ginny was looking between the two of them.

“Harry? Who is this man?”

That, too, was something that needed to be addressed.

“Can you keep a secret, Ginny?”

* * *

 

 

They had bought t he story about how Ron and Ace  had ‘accompanied’ Lockhart to the chamber –this part not so much, it seemed only Mrs.  Weasley  actually believed Lockhar t had gone in voluntarily— and Ace  had managed to defeat the basilisk with Fawkes’ help –which technically was true, Marco thought— and the sword –which so happened to be the sword of Gryffindor,  Albus  said. Well, they mostly believed the story; Marco was su r e  Albus  suspected Ace wasn’t telling the whole truth, but had left it be and rewarded  Ace and Ron  for their bravery. Not that house points and a shiny trophy meant much, but it was something.

From there ,  Ginny, who had promised not to say anything about Mar co, was dragged to the hospital wing , Albus proved he had known all along that Lockhart stole his  stories from other people and erased their minds, it was said the basilisk’s victims were being unpetrified right now –which made both Ace and Ron immensely happy about Hermione and Marco realized there was another revelation com ing, this one probably loaded with  questions— and finally Ace, Albus and Marco were left alone in the office.  Albus , of course, had wanted to talk to Ace about Riddle, and it was fortunate  Ace  had been able to look at his lap in what could be seen as either nervousness or exhaustion after the events of the day, or he wouldn’t have been able to hide the fact that he knew more about Tom Riddle than he should have.

Ace was proving very capable of avoiding Albus’ eyes without seemingly pretending to.

Marco liked Albus, and he trusted him about many things, but this whole mess with Voldemort wasn’t one of them.  Albus  reminded him far too much of Sengoku in hi s strategies for that to be the case.

Though Albus revealed something interesting, something Marco hadn’t realized himself before,  something  hadn’t told  Marco  about as he sometimes did when he needed to think or get somethi ng  of f  his chest; he had said Voldemort had transferred some of his powers to Ace the night he attacked him.

That was something they would have to think over, it might explain the reason for the prophecy that tied them together.

It could wait a day, though.  When  Ace was leaving for the feast –Marco had all the intention to follow— Lucius Malfoy entered Albus’ office. And with him came Dobby.

That was one mystery solved.

Seeing the house elf bandaged up, Marco felt a little bad for threatening him.

While Malfoy spewed venom at Albus and Albus countered in his calm manner,  Dobby  cowered at his master’s feet, trying to clean his shoes. He did, however, look up once, and his eyes met Marco’s. The look there was enough for  Marco  to understand th at Dobby  had realized exactly who he was.  Dobby  somehow managed to look even more scared, and Marco felt guilt crawl up his gut. He nodded at Dobby as non-threateningly as he could.

When the diary came up in the conversation, Dobby turned to Ace and quite obviously tried to tell  him  it had  been Malfoy’s doing and hit  himself after every attempt. Luckily, Ace caught on  and nodded.  Dobby  then twisted his ears in self-punishment.

* * *

 

 

When Malfoy left, Harry barely remembered to ask Dumbledore if he could take the diary before going through with his impromptu plan. Putting  the book in  his dirty sock brought a sense of satisfaction just by imagining  Voldemort’s reaction if he knew the  fate of his diary, and that feeling only increased when Malfoy took it without realizing what it was.

Of course,  Malfoy  was in such a hurry to get rid of the offending garment that he threw it at Dobby, unwittingly freeing him.

Harry could have cheered when  Dobby  attacked his former master and made him flee. Not that he couldn’t have dodged whatever spell  Malfoy had  wanted to fire  at  him —and beat him, if he got close enough to throw a punch— but it was nice to see he had someone else to count on.

As long as Dobby didn’t try to save his life again, of course.

* * *

 

 

The feast, Harry decided, was the best he had experienced at Hogwarts. It was nothing like the parties the Whitebeard Pirates threw, and juice was nowhere near as good as booze to party with, but seeing everybody so happy after all these months, everybody dressed in their pyjamas and eating as much as they wanted ,  was great.

Whe n Hermione came running to them ,  Ron and Harry engulfed her in a double bear hug and held her there until she complained that she couldn't breathe.  She  wanted to know everything that had happened since she had bee n petrified, and fired all sort  of questions at them. Harry convinced her to wait until they were a lone, looking around pointedly.  Luckily, she was better than either  Harry or Ron  at getting hints.

Justin came to apologize for suspecting he was the Heir —Harry was too happy to care about that at the moment —  and  exams, much to Hermione’s dismay, were cancelled;  it was announced Lockhart couldn’t come back next year ,  and the teachers cheered as much  or even more than the students  did ;  and at around three in the morning Hagrid came back, which only made Harry want to party even harder.

Harry was sure the next day no one showed up outside of a bedroom before, at least, lunch. He woke up for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I wanted to leave the scene at the Chamber so that Riddle could say most of what he does in canon, but realized with these two it'd be impossible. I managed to fit some important facts and that's about it (I hope Riddle wasn't too out of character.) Also, I know it's ridiculous how they got the sword, but there is no way Harry would've shown the loyalty to Dumbledore here that originally brought the hat (and it was already there anyway.) Dumbledore said only a true Gryffindor could get it out of the hat, and we all know Marco fits the bill, so there xD
> 
> Now, if you're wondering why Marco put the hat on after saying he had to maintain his cover, it's simple: right after saying it, he realized the hat is sentient, and so has known his secret since the moment he transformed. He was checking what Albus intended for the hat to do, but he was also convincing it to keep his secret.
> 
> And another fanart by Red Pirana, the basilisk vs. the phoenix :D  
> 


	15. The time between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignore everything you know of history, geography, meteorology or the world in general, because the explanations here don't make any sense in the real world. But I needed to explain the change in the world and this is the best I could come up with. Sorry, my inner history lover is suffering as much as anyone else because of this.

Hermione had been silent throughout the whole story, her hands twitching in a way Harry was sure meant she wished she could take notes, and now her eyes slid to Marco, who was sitting in one of the plush armchairs the Room of Requirement had provided for them —Ron and Hermione had fawned over the room when Harry had brought them here.

Hermione turned to Harry and she looked like she did when she had a particularly complicated question to ask; Harry mentally braced himself.

“But… that world you describe isn’t anything like ours. How is he here?”

Harry turned to look at Marco. He wasn’t even going to try to guess the answer to that.

Marco, luckily, didn’t look intimidated by the question. Harry realized he probably had expected it for a while now —a topic that Harry had never gotten around to boarding himself.

“I don’t have all the details,” he began —of course he didn’t, it had to have been a long time ago and probably too complicated for Harry’s brain— and shifted to a more comfortable position, “but some years after-“ he gestured vaguely to Harry. _Everything_ , he could read. “I was planning on leaving, there was no one else left-“

“Leaving?” interrupted Hermione, curious. She looked strangely gleeful, and Harry realized that was something she had wanted to do to a teacher more than once but hadn’t dared to; ask for more details about a point in the explanation while they were still giving it.

“Dying,” Marco answered, and Harry winced. “I’m immortal, I don’t die of old age, and there are very few things that can actually kill me.”

“So you were going to kill yourself?” Ron asked, looking slightly pale and horrified.

Marco stared at him, serious.

“Wouldn’t you? If there was no one you care about left alive and you knew you wouldn’t die like everybody else, wouldn’t you?” Harry flinched again, and once more wondered how exactly had he died. He pushed the thought away. _Not now_.

“I-I guess,” Ron stammered, blushing in embarrassment.

Marco continued as if he hadn’t noticed.

“I heard a strange story about a little boy who could make things float or disappear without having eaten a Devil Fruit and got curious, so I went to see. I bet no one knew back then that the boy was the first one of a whole race.”

Hermione and Ron gasped, and even Harry sat up straighter.

“The first wizard?” Hermione croaked out.

 _Well, of course, there were no wizards back then_.

“That sort of ruins the whole pureblood theory, doesn’t it? Voldemort,” ignored flinch from Ron, “and his followers would have a heart attack if they knew.”

Marco smiled.

“Probably.” Looking at each of them in turn, he continued. “I guess you know about the witch hunts, don’t you?” They nodded. “Ace, do you remember how people in many places outside the Grand Line reacted to Devil Fruit users?”

Harry grimaced.

“They treated them like monsters. Luffy got in some tough situations because of it.” He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“Then imagine how people would react when children who could do magic began to be born out of nowhere. It was chaos, the middle ages with better technology, Devil Fruits and haki. There were places, mostly in the Grand Line, where those kids could grow in relative normalcy, but in most cases they were pursued, to either be killed or captured. Some parents killed their own children when they displayed signs of magic, too,“ Hermione brought her hands up to cover her mouth, Ron had paled considerably and Harry was clenching the armrests of his seat tightly, “others tried to flee to safer places. It started out as small organized groups of fanatics going after them and people who defended them —some stronger, some weaker— and in a couple of decades it had developed into a war in most islands, a war practically no one tried to stop because they were all involved in one side or the other. During all this, there was a mermaid who had similar powers to Madam Shirley. You remember her?”

Harry nodded, a flashback of an enormous mermaid drinking with Pops coming to mind. Seeing Ron and Hermione’s questioning looks, he decided to elaborate.

“She could see the future.”

“Like a seer? But those are witches,” Hermione said.

“Not really. Seeing the future is an older power than magic, you guys just don’t take muggle seers seriously,” Marco said.

“Okay, why is that woman important?” Harry asked, steering the conversation back to the main topic.

“She was good, she had already predicted many things accurately —not good ones, mostly, including the destruction of a whole island— and one of the times I passed through Fishman Island she sought me out. She’d had a vision. A prophecy, really, but no one called them that back then, and they weren’t so flashy with their presentation. She told me she had seen that ‘Fire Fist’ would come back.”

Harry took in a breath. Of course Marco would stick around if he was told that, the idiot.

“Anything else? The other prophecy you told me was more accurate.”

“Not much more, really. She didn’t know when or where, but she knew you would be in great danger as a child —her words were fancier— and she said, by what she had seen, that it would be ‘when the snails come back’. It was a weird clue, really. By then, magic was already interfering with technology, and in many places it had fried communications. Den Den Mushi were practically useless.”

Hermione visibly refrained herself from asking about the snails and Harry had to smile. He was sure that question would come at some point, but at least this was one he could answer.

“Back then, as Ace can tell you, there were some extremely powerful Devil Fruits. The guy who had the Gura Gura no Mi was a violent piece of shit,” they ignored Hermione’s disapproving glare at Marco’s choice of words, “who thought himself some sort of god and used his powers far too much. Others did, too, it was sort of a period of overpowered excessively egocentric users, and before anyone had realized it, a chain reaction had started and disasters succeeded themselves one after another, wiping entire islands out, making volcanoes erupt when they shouldn’t have, increasing the frequency of natural disasters… not many people survived, and the geography of the planet was forced to change faster than it should have. I’m not sure how, exactly, that happened, it’s not like there are even maps from this period, and it lasted far longer than I care to count. Many species disappeared completely, the Sea Kings and the Giants the first —what you call giants now were just big humans back then— and I spent most of the time flying around trying to find people, looking for any sign of snails. They had died out, too. Everything was so forced, though, that the changes happened way faster than they should have naturally. As the events that forced them stopped happening, things began to slow down.”

“Why did they stop?” Ron asked, looking like he didn’t really understand. Harry didn’t, either.

“Because there were fewer Devil Fruit users who could cause them. Magic alone isn’t enough to cause a natural disaster of that magnitude, as far as I’ve seen. You’d need an army of powerful wizards just for one.”

“But, if a Devil Fruit user died, they would just need someone else to eat the fruit, wouldn’t they? I don’t understand,” Hermione —who had asked about how the fruits worked earlier— said.

“I got rid of them. As many fruit users as I found. If they were dangerous, I killed them and threw the new fruit somewhere nobody would be able to find it, and if they weren’t, I waited for them to die and then got rid of the fruit. Life expectancy had decreased considerably in less than the first hundred years. People were lucky if they reached thirty.”

A short silence fell as they all tried to imagine what that might have been like and failed at it.

“Anyway, by the time the world was calm enough that humans could begin to migrate and multiply, things had changed considerably. I don’t know if there were any stories of the world before, but if that was the case none have survived and I never encountered any. Magic, at least until fear and the sense of superiority reared their ugly heads again, was no longer seen as a threat, but instead as a tool that had helped many survive. The knowledge of haki had been forgotten —you two remember what we’ve explained about it?” Ron and Hermione, who had listened incredulously to that particular explanation, nodded. “Some people could use Kenbunshoku Haki naturally just as before, but it was thought of as just a sixth sense, messages from the gods or whatever each society decided to call it. The other two types were limited to accidental use that was dismissed as something different. And from there the world evolved.”

“And you waited through all this?” Harry forced himself to say in a weak voice. “That was _thousands_ of years.”

Here, a small, not at all happy smile stretched Marco’s lips.

“I admit I didn’t think it’d be so long at first. Maybe a century or two at most. And when I began to doubt, the thoughts of ‘what if I die and he’s born just after?’ or ‘he might be around and I haven’t found him yet, I’ll move around a little more’ appeared. After that it was also ‘I’ve been waiting for so long, it’d be stupid to die now’. And then the clue I had thought useless and stupid proved to actually be useful.”

Here Marco looked at Harry pointedly, but Harry didn’t understand. Marco blinked.

“The phone was invented.”

“Oh.”

“Wait, those snails were _phones_?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Sort of,” said Harry, “they did other things, too, but that was their main function.”

“All right, but how did you find Harry?”

“If I say ‘a gut feeling’, would you believe me?” Hermione just glared at him and Marco laughed. “Guess not. Okay. During all this time I’ve been visiting seers —not the thousands of frauds around, the real ones; they’re easy to identify once they start working— and have been trying to get any hints. There had been a prophecy, even if it isn’t recorded anywhere, so chances were there would be another. I doubled my efforts at the beginning of this century, and eventually a seer told me that to find what I wanted I should stay close to the brilliant wizard who would almost be lost but would try to fix his mistakes in time.”

Harry gave him a blank stare, just like his two friends, and Marco scoffed.

“That’s Albus. Long story, and I’m not telling you. It was big enough for me to find him, and knowing he was a wizard helped a lot to reduce the candidates.”

“Hey, speaking of the Headmaster, does he know about you?” Asked Hermione, and Ron perked up at the question.

Harry looked at Marco, who was clearly sending the message that it was Harry’s story and his choice if they told it or not. Harry shrugged.

“He doesn’t. At first I didn’t want to tell him because I needed to stick around to find Ace, and by the time I decided I could tell him my story and he wouldn’t send me away things were complicated and I never got around to it. Then there was the prophecy.”

And he looked at Harry. It was his story from here on.

“Prophecy?”

“About me,” Harry said, sighing. “I’m popular like that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ginny Weasley had spent months, ever since she had realized what Tom Riddle’s diary was doing to her, trying to hide her horrible secret from the entire world. Now there was no need for it, and instead she was putting her considerably polished acting skills to good use.

She didn’t want to attract anyone’s attention by looking gloomy when everybody else was so happy, and she certainly didn’t want to ruin the rest of Harry, Ron and Hermione’s year; the three had gone through so much already because of her that she couldn’t stand the idea of having them worry about how she was doing. The two boys seemed perfectly happy thinking now that Riddle was gone everything was fine with her, and Hermione was too distracted by Harry’s story to think much of anything else —Ginny had been in the Hospital Wing at the moment, but they had come afterwards to see her and Hermione had been more than happy to repeat everything she had been told, along with some of her thoughts on the matter.

She felt lucky that not many people knew what had happened —she really didn’t want to know how Percy would have reacted if he had been told— but she knew she wasn’t fooling everybody. Professor Dumbledore had given her a couple of piercing, worried looks; Professor McGonagall had looked worriedly at her, too, though now she seemed to start to believe that Ginny was fine and looked at her with pride, no doubt thinking she was strong or something like that; her parents sent her letters every day, but the worried comments and questions lessened with every letter Ginny sent just talking about normal school stuff, complaining about Snape or saying how relieved she was not to have to suffer Lockhart anymore —her mother still refused to believe he was a fraud.

She heard wings flapping and turned to see the small, red form of Marco as a phoenix —Fawkes, she remembered Dumbledore had called him— approaching, a bag held in his talons. He landed on the rock next to the one where she was using as a seat near the lake and raised a wing in greeting. She waved a little with one hand. Ginny knew he wouldn’t transform, the place was full of students.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the bag.

Marco just held it out to her and she took it. Ginny smiled slightly when she saw the assorted sweets inside, and understood it as the cheering up gesture it no doubt was meant to be.

"Thanks," she mumbled. Sifting through the contents, she pulled out a licorice wand and took a bite out of it.

"You know," she started, realizing that if Marco thought she needed cheering up she wasn't fooling him, "with everything that's been happening, I haven't talked much to the people in my year. I'm not really friends with them or anything."

Marco tilted his head to the side and pointed with a wing to the group of first year Gryffindor girls sitting at the shore of the lake. Ginny scrunched up her face.

"Yeah, them. They're a group now, and I don't know how to talk to them."

Marco pointed to the girls again, then to the bag next to Ginny and finally to Ginny herself. She looked down at the bag, then up at the girls. Of course, if she brought sweets, that would be a good way to start a conversation, and they would be happier to receive her.

"Thank you," she repeated, standing up and taking the bag with her. Marco nodded. "Really, for everything."

As Ginny walked to her classmates, she heard him take flight again.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had soon realized getting a magical mail box in London had been a good idea —at his speed, the trips there were short, and there wasn't a magical post office in Surrey— because there was no way he could have kept from Albus the amount of mail he was receiving this summer. Hermione wrote him long and frequent letters full of questions about the world as it was before or any historical event she could think about —he couldn't answer most of these questions, it wasn't as if he had been everywhere or paid enough attention to detail to be able to satisfy her almost boundless curiosity, but he answered what he could— and Ginny also sent him some letters; she had many things she needed to get off of her chest about last year but of which she didn't want her family to know. For obvious reasons, a diary was out of the question, and Marco didn't mind talking to her; helping crewmates had been part of his job as a division commander, and it made him feel good to be doing it again.

For his part, Ace spent as much time as he could get away with at the apartment Marco had rented again, and they made a point of going out to different places, including outings Ace had wanted to go on as a child but hadn’t been able to go. Once, Marco had suggested they go to the zoo so he could hear parseltongue without the rush of an imminent fight or a terrified audience of students, and they had spent half the day at the reptiles’ house, Ace acting as interpreter between Marco and the inhabitants —who, by the way, were most displeased with their living accommodations.

For a brief, mostly stupid moment, Marco had thought that Ace and his friends should read up on occlumency and try to learn enough to keep what they knew about Ace’s past life safe, but then he discarded the idea upon realizing two facts; first of all, there was no way in hell Ace would have the discipline necessary to learn to control his thoughts, and second, Albus and Severus were both too good legilimens and would be probably even more curious if they tried anything and found resistance than if they caught a strange thought.

But, all in all, this summer was proving better than the previous one; no worrying over how to approach Ace about his past life, Ace was having a good time and reaching an acceptable physical shape for a boy his age —by Marco’s standards— and Ace’s friend Ron’s family had earned a small prize and not only were they on a trip but Ron now owned a new wand —and it was about time; the old wand may have played an important role in freeing the school from Lockhart, but the thing was a menace.

So, of course, it was about time something went wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

This year, Harry had decided to go to Marco’s apartment on his own. To do so, he rode the bus, and that was why he was currently sitting in the final row, watching a mother that was barely past her teens struggling to calm the wails of her baby girl.

He was in a good mood, even more because he knew that, had Marco not been here, his summers would be horrible. As things were, though, he liked them. Even if the Dursleys were making an attempt to grow some balls.

Marco hadn’t come to their house this year —there wasn’t any reason to, really— and thus Harry’s relatives had decided they could get away with a little something: Harry’s books and wand had been locked in a cupboard as soon as he had entered the house. He didn’t mind, and had told Marco as much. Not only couldn’t he use magic out of school, which he wasn’t going to risk after last summer’s incident with Dobby, but he was sure he could take care of most threats without it. Not having his books simply meant he couldn’t do his homework: his original plan had been to make Hermione feel sorry for him and help, but instead Marco had showed up with copies of the books from the school library and now Harry was suffering from the pain of homework all the same.

He still wanted to see Madam Pince’s reaction when she learned her books were being taken from her library without her consent.

Marco was also going over his own set of books, these taken from the forbidden section, in search of methods to manipulate a soul and inserting it into an object –because that was the only explanation they had been able to come up with to justify that Voldemort’s soul had been in that diary. The Tom Riddle from the chamber had been around sixteen, which meant he had most likely created the diary while he was still in school. Riddle had been a poor orphan raised in a muggle orphanage and thus, unless one of his pureblood bigoted followers had lent him some books, the school library had been his only access to an extensive collection of magical books.

They weren’t having any luck so far.

Harry figured something was wrong when he entered the apartment to find Marco pacing around in the small kitchen, frowning and glaring at the newspaper.

“What happened?”

Marco frowned at him and pointed at the paper. Harry walked over and saw a huge picture of a dishevelled and crazed looking man yelling at the camera. Above it, the huge deadline read ‘SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPED AZKABAN’.

“Who’s Sirius Black?”

“Your godfather.”

“Ah. And that’s bad, how?”

“He’s the one who sold your family to Voldemort.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“…What?”

Marco sighed.

“You should sit down.“

Harry did, and absentmindedly went through a plate of bacon as Marco explained how Black had been his dad’s best friend, had become their secret keeper —being under that _fidelius_ charm sounded maddening— betrayed them and, as Marco had later heard, blown up a street with a friend and twelve passers-by in it and laughed madly all the while about how he had killed the Potters while the aurors arrested him.

Harry wanted the man’s head on a platter.

“Before you do anything stupid,” Marco said once he had finished his tale, “keep in mind Black that is dangerous. He was unpredictable back at school, but now that he’s been in Azkaban he’s outright insane. People go crazy in that prison in less than a year, and he’s been there twelve. He’s powerful, too, and you’re not a haki user yet, which means you’re as vulnerable to his magic as any other wizard. So _be careful_. Make a mistake and he could kill you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” Harry said solemnly. “He won’t kill me, _I_ will kill _him_.”

Marco nodded, accepting his words.

“Then what about some training? Your reflexes still need to improve.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was beginning to suspect someone up there enjoyed making sure he didn’t have a normal birthday. He had been making plans with Marco for the last few days, and thus it shouldn’t have surprised him that said plans had been ruined. In the most horrible of ways. He would prefer having Dobby attempt to save his life again.

Marge Dursley was coming for a week.

Harry _hated_ Marge. She was even worse than the rest of the Dursleys, and had it out for him, convinced as she was that Harry was a good for nothing brat and leeching from her brother’s ‘good will’. He would have simply disappeared for the week, except because he needed Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign his permit to visit Hogsmeade next year —he had received it last night with his Hogwarts letter, along with birthday presents from his friends— and Vernon had decided he wouldn’t sign it until after his sister’s visit, to make sure Harry behaved. ‘Behaving’ meant he couldn’t just disappear, because the horrid woman would see that as a show of disrespect towards his relatives.

Now Harry was going to Marco’s apartment while Uncle Vernon went to collect his sister, to tell him the news. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get out of this situation without risking blowing Marco’s cover, so he would have to endure.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had decided to go and get some extra research on Riddle’s little diary while Ace was forced to stay with his family for the week. There was the threat of Black, of course, but Marco thought Ace should be able to take care of it. Black didn’t have a wand and, even if he did, he hadn’t been out of Azkaban even two days. He wouldn’t stand a chance against Ace —and wandless Ace was deadlier than with a wand, probably around the level he had been at when he was thirteen the first time around.

Reaching Albus’ office —Marco had been away a couple of days, he would stay here a while before going to the library— he found him with a sombre expression and his chin resting on his interlaced fingers.

Marco landed on the edge of the desk and pecked Albus’ turquoise robe to catch his attention. Albus sighed. Marco tilted his head in question.

“I have had the most tiresome conversation with Cornelius.” Another head tilt. “Yesterday, Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban, and we all believe he is after young Harry.” Marco chirped indignantly. No need for Albus to know he already knew. “The Ministry is debating, if Black is not captured before the start of the school term, whether it would be a good idea to place some of the guards of Azkaban in the school to ensure the children’s safety, and I do not believe I will be able to dissuade them if they decide to do so.”

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._


	16. Book hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I should have said a long time ago but I didn’t because I’m just that smart is that this story has fanart. A lot of it, really, drawn by both Red Pirana and FoxMii :)
> 
> I’ve added the pieces for the published chapters at the bottom of each chapter, and here I’m leaving a list of links to all of them. Because here posting is behind ffnet, I’m limiting the list to the chapters published here, and will add the fanart for the remaining chapters as I post them.  
> So, in order:
> 
> Cover, fresh from the making, drawn by FoxMii :D You can find it at the top of chapter 1 and at this link:  
> http://foxmii.deviantart.com/art/Recreated-Fire-Cover-569498291
> 
> This isn’t from any chapter. It’s the first piece I got, and here Marco is with original color scheme from the manga (by Red Pirana):  
> http://redpirana.deviantart.com/art/Recreated-Fire-507862369
> 
> Chapter 7, Marco and Harry at the restaurant (by FoxMii):  
> http://foxmii.deviantart.com/art/An-Unwelcome-Birthday-Present-Ch-7-557994460
> 
> Chapter 14, basilisk vs. Phoenix (by Red Pirana):  
> http://redpirana.deviantart.com/art/Basilisk-vs-Phoenix-521444850
> 
> These for past chapters. There are six pieces for this chapter that you can find at the bottom :)

Marco had realized, sometime during his third day of research, that this year he had spent so little time at Hogwarts since classes had ended that he didn’t know who the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was. It was a very serious oversight on his part —after Lockhart last year, he was kind of afraid to think about what horror would be unleashed on the students next— and he had decided to discover who the new addition to the staff was.

Albus was too used to his oddities to react when Marco landed on the huge desk in his office and pointed at the stack of parchment where Albus kept the syllabus for the next school year that some professors had already submitted —Defence aside, they rarely changed, but it was standard procedure and Albus always placed them on the same spot. Belatedly, Marco remembered that Kettleburn —the Care of Magical Creatures professor— had retired and therefore there was another professor to worry about.

Or not so much. Ace might be taking that class, but he was so suicidal that even a professor as prone to dealing with dangerous creatures as Kettleburn had been would be hard pressed to put Ace at more risk than he would put himself into —Marco was glad they didn’t study any really dangerous creatures in the school, but he still vowed to keep an eye on the Care of Magical Creatures classes.

After some shuffling of papers, most of which ended on the floor —Marco’s motor skills weren’t the best in this form, wings only did so much— he had the first useful paper. Had he been in human form, he would have grinned. He limited himself to a happy trill.

Hagrid was the new Care of Magical Creatures professor. Of course, after the events of last year, Hagrid had been cleared of all charges from fifty years ago, and was allowed to have a wand again, but Marco hadn’t expected this. Hagrid hadn’t graduated from Hogwarts, after all, but it was true few people knew more about magical creatures than he did. As long as he didn’t smuggle another dragon into the school, Marco was happy for him.

He should go congratulate him on getting the job later.

First, though, came his original purpose.

He found the sheaf of papers containing the Defence Against the Dark Arts syllabus at the bottom of the pile, and by then Albus was giving him an amused look.

A quick scan of the first page —first year class plans— proved that this year’s professor might even be a decent one, and Marco looked up the page to see if he recognized the name.

He might have paled, even in bright red bird form.

Marco dropped the papers and levelled a glare at Albus. He was pretty sure he was doing a great job of sending the message ‘are you out of your fucking mind?’ through his eyes, but of course Albus didn’t stop smiling. He probably didn’t see anything wrong with this.

With an indignant cry, and entirely intentionally sweeping every item on Albus’ desk to the floor, Marco flew out the window.

  


* * *

  


Spinner’s End became an even more depressing place with each passing year. The furniture had reached the point where it was a miracle some of it even held together anymore, other had fallen apart and the only pieces that resisted in a passable state —basically the bookshelves— did so with the support of magic.

Marco wasn’t surprised when he flew through the kitchen window, that he could only open because one of the panes didn’t fit well and was easy to push, to find Severus sitting at the table, an almost empty glass in one hand and a half full bottle of somewhat decent firewhiskey open on the table.

Severus glared at him, eyes mostly focused still —he had an alcohol tolerance worthy of any self-respecting pirate— and downed the remainder of the glass.

“I suppose it would be useless to ask you to leave.”

Marco shrugged with his wings, and would have grinned had he been in human form. He moved to land at the other side of the small table. Anyone else would have been cursed out of the house by now, but Severus had a soft spot he would never admit to for Marco. They had been friends for years, too, and Severus was the only one aside from Ace who knew Marco —again, like any self-respecting pirate— liked to drink.

That was why Severus summoned an empty glass and filled it with firewhiskey. In this form Marco couldn’t drink directly from it, but that was what straws were for. He decided to ignore the fact that the one Severus had just conjured had what looked suspiciously like human hearts printed all over it. That was just Severus letting his bad mood out in a non-destructive way.

Marco took a long draw and prepared to wait. When that bottle was empty, Severus would start to vent. It would be long, today, and Marco wouldn’t be surprised if Severus actually got completely wasted this time.

Really, what was Albus _thinking_ , hiring Remus Lupin?

That was like asking for a disaster to happen. And Albus probably didn’t see anything wrong with it. He had never noticed nor cared that not everything the Marauders did could be excused as pranks, after all.

Sometimes Marco wanted to kick him.

  


* * *

  


St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.

That was the cover story the Dursleys had given Marge for Hogwarts. Marge, and now that Harry thought about it, probably the whole neighbourhood. Thanks to that, Marge’s comments were even worse than usual —and Harry would have thought that impossible until now— and the experience was made even worse by the thought of what he could be doing if the ugly woman wasn’t here. Right now, instead of listening to Marge badmouth his father, James Potter —a man she knew nothing about, and who was thousands of times better than her— he could have been getting his ass kicked by a smirking Marco, and he really missed it.

Naturally, no one could blame Harry when, after one too many comments, he lost his temper.

  


* * *

  


Marco sighed when a frantic Arabella Figg called Albus’ office through the floo and informed him that Harry Potter had fled from his house after inflating Marge Dursley like a balloon —it seemed there was a team from the Ministry trying to return her to normal at the moment.

Really, what had he been expecting?

It was a miracle that Ace had lasted so long with everything he had hurriedly ranted about the last morning they had seen each other.

As soon as Albus left through the fire, Marco flew out the window and headed for Surrey. He was sure he knew where Ace was headed.

  


* * *

  


Harry closed the apartment’s door behind his back and slid down the wall next to it. So late in the afternoon, he had been forced to walk the whole distance: it was a little far, that was true, but he was ashamed that he was so tired. Thirteen year old Ace wouldn’t have even sweated a little bit because of this walk.

The huge black dog he had spotted nearby a couple of times while he walked hadn’t done anything to calm him; after last year, he was a little leery of mysterious animals.

His heartbeat still wasn’t back to normal after the adrenaline rush at Privet Drive, as he hadn’t felt safe enough to calm down until he had closed that familiar door behind himself. He had spent the whole walk expecting another Ministry owl to descend on him with a letter telling him he was expelled, or a team of aurors appearing out of nowhere to arrest him for attacking a muggle.

Instead, who found him was Marco, who entered in his small phoenix form through the living room’s window and transformed before landing in the middle of the room.

“A balloon?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

Harry grinned.

“It was an accident. She’s lucky she’s still alive, after what she was saying.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. But I think I’m expelled.”

Marco actually laughed, walked up to the door and sat down next to Harry.

“I doubt that.” At Harry's questioning look, he explained. “You are the boy-who-lived, who has a madman after his head and just vanished from where people knew you were ‘safe’. The Ministry must be in a panic right now, your death could cost them all their careers, and expelling you would look horrible on them when the entire Wizarding World can guess Black’s objective. I’d say you’ll be perfectly fine.”

Relief pooled in Harry’s chest. He never thought he would be grateful for self-serving politicians, but at that precise moment he was.

“Can I stay here for the rest of the holidays, then?”

Marco shook his head.

“Better not, there are probably search parties looking for you already. You should take the Knight Bus and go to the Leaky Cauldron. There’s probably someone looking for you in there.”

“The what? And why would I do that?”

Marco shrugged.

“It’s a magical means of transportation, and you don’t need magic to summon it, only a wand. Many runaway kids take it, and the only magical places outside of Hogwarts and Ron’s house you know are the Cauldron and Diagon Alley.”

“… True. How do I call it?”

“You just need to raise your want in a street, like calling a taxi with it, and the bus will appear. But better do it closer to the house.”

That would probably be the best; they didn’t want to attract any attention to the apartment.

  


* * *

  


Meeting Cornelius Fudge hadn’t done anything to improve Harry’s opinion of him, which had been very low after Fudge had ordered Hagrid’s unjust arrest earlier that year.

An interesting trip on the Knight Bus —it had been fun, he should do it again— and a ridiculous conversation later with Fudge, who didn’t even know how to properly hide that he was lying, and Harry had a room in the Leaky Cauldron for the remainder of the summer. He bet there were people keeping an eye on him at all times, but he wasn’t in the mood to try to spot them or anything. Instead, he would spend August exploring Diagon Alley as much as he wanted.

“This is better than the Dursleys’ at least.”

Harry, who had been busy searching for his pyjamas in his trunk, jumped in place and turned around. Marco was leaning against the wall next to the window. Harry hadn’t heard him come in.

“What the hell?”

“You lowered your guard. I could’ve killed you if I’d wanted to,” Marco admonished. Harry didn’t protest, because it was true.

“I’m tired, sorry.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

Sighing, Harry went back to his clothes-searching.

“Yeah, right. I’ll be more careful. You wanted something?”

By then, Marco had moved to the bed that looked far more comfortable than the one at Privet Drive.

“Just checking you’re fine. What did Fudge say?”

“Tried to convince me the Ministry is nice and wouldn’t expel me for accidental magic. He didn’t mention Black at all.” A snort from Marco. “I know. He also said the Dursleys agreed to let me go back next year. Bet they’re pissed.”

“I could pay them a visit.” That sounded so much like a line from a bad mafia movie that Harry laughed.

That didn’t mean he didn’t think it was a good idea, though. It was a pity he would miss it.

“Hey, Marco,” Harry asked after a couple of minutes of silence. By then he had tossed the pyjamas on the bed and was going over his stuff to make sure he had everything. He doubted the Dursleys would have touched anything magical, but he might have missed something in his rage earlier that night.

“Yes?”

“My uncle didn’t sign my permission slip for Hogsmeade, and Fudge refused to let me go when I asked. Could you get Uncle Vernon to sign it when you visit?” When there was no answer, Harry looked up. Marco looked pensive. “What?”

 “I don’t think that’ll change anything.”

Harry scoffed.

“Please, don’t tell me you think I should stay safe or some crap like that.”

“You wouldn’t listen,” Marco pointed out. “But no, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that even if they did let you go —and I’m not sure they would— you would have someone following you at all times.”

“What? Oh, _come on_ , why would they do that? The village has got to be protected.”

“It is, but people –and especially the Minister— are paranoid about Black. If you go out of the school, you won’t be alone.”

“So, what? If I pulled a prank on someone or something in the village they would know?” Marco nodded. “I guess you couldn’t join me, Ron and Hermione even if we went somewhere alone then.”

“No, I don’t think I could,” Marco agreed. “If you gave your babysitters the slip, there would be panic.”

Harry groaned and dropped on the bed next to Marco. Hogsmeade didn’t sound half as interesting now. If someone followed him, that not only meant he couldn’t do anything fun, he would have to control what he said. His previous life and Marco weren’t exactly a secret, but he wasn’t eager for people to find out either: he wasn’t sure who was trustworthy and who wasn’t, and there was the whole issue with Voldemort to figure out.

“I hate this,” he groaned.

“I know. Let’s do something: as soon as Black is caught –or killed— I’ll make sure your uncle signs the form, no conditions.”

“Okay. So now what? I guess you can’t tag along in Diagon Alley, either.” Which also sucked. It seemed like there wouldn’t be any more training for the remainder of the month.

“No. I’ll check on you here. After last year, Albus knows that I –or, well, Fawkes— like you, he won’t see anything wrong with me coming here.”

“And what will you do the rest of the time?”

“I’ll keep looking to see if I can find anything about Riddle’s diary.”

  


* * *

  


The restricted section was one of the largest in Hogwarts’ library, but it didn’t take that much time to look through if you knew what you were doing. Inside of it, books were divided by sub-sections, which allowed to easily discard entire shelves that only contained books on topics irrelevant to the search, such as Herbology or Transfiguration. There were other sections that could be of use, such as Potions or History, but he had started by the most obvious part.

Currently, he was almost done with the Dark Arts section. It had taken him over a week, even though he could discard many books just by the topic or the feeling they gave him –Riddle wouldn’t have been so stupid as to pick up a book that made you sing for the rest of your life just by touching it— because the contents of some of them made him feel sick and often he had to stop reading after a mere hour.

He had just picked a new book — _Magick Moste Evile_ — and something in the introduction caught his attention: ‘ _Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction_ ’.

Marco had a notebook where he was adding a few annotations he thought might help and he added this: something the author of a book that included some seriously sick spells found too horrible to write about was worth a closer look. It sounded like something that would have caught Riddle’s attention had he read that line.

  


* * *

  


Harry walked into Madam Malkin’s and grinned at the owner when she greeted him.

“Do you need new clothes, dear?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come along then.” She ushered him to the stool, and Harry followed.

“Ma’am?” he asked once the flying measuring tape was doing its work.

“Yes?”

“Could you do something for me?”

  


* * *

  


“Look!” Ace exclaimed as soon as Marco had entered through the window. He flew to the desk —he had seen someone looking at the window and didn’t want to risk transforming— before looking at what Ace had in his hand.

It was his Gryffindor tie, gold and red stripped, except for the lower part; the wider part of the tie, maybe a third of what was left visible once in place, was a black piece with an embroidered symbol on it. A very familiar symbol Marco had ensured he would never forget by always keeping it somewhere. The purple crossbones and skull grinned at him from Ace’s school tie, the characteristic moustache, as always, making the grin seem wider than it was in reality.

  


* * *

  


Harry wasn’t ashamed to admit he had spent a good part of his summer drooling at the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where a new and very promising-looking broom was exposed: the Firebolt. It had taken a lot of self-control not to buy it himself or ask Marco for it –though it was unlikely that Marco would have done so after Harry had asked jokingly if the broom, which had amazing qualities according to the description, would fly faster than him. Marco had glared at him, swatted him with a wing –again, someone had been watching the window— and shredded the flyer Harry had got at the shop.

The main reason he had resisted was because he liked his Nimbus 2000, and it was a very good broom that worked well for him.

Once he had convinced himself not to buy the broom, Harry decided he could spend his time at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour and go through the wide variety of flavours they had. Mr. Fortescue insisted on giving him sundaes for free, something Harry wasn’t going to oppose at all, and it was a nice thing to do while he read. Marco had appeared a couple of days after Harry had settled into the Leaky Cauldron with a book on fire-based spells which, sincerely, was much better reading material than Harry’s new school books.

  


* * *

  


“I have some possible leads,” Marco told Harry one night. He had transformed after making sure none of Harry’s current guards were looking at the window directly, and then Harry had closed it and drawn the curtains to make sure no one could see anything. They hadn’t met more than one or two days a week since Harry lived in Diagon Alley, and most times it was only with Marco as a small phoenix. There hadn’t been many opportunities for conversation.

“What are they?”

“Mostly a list of dark magic and items I found mentioned in the restricted section but of which there wasn’t much information. When Albus became Headmaster, he took some books from the restricted section,” Marco explained. “As a student, Riddle could have read them there, but right now they’re in Albus’ office, and there’s no way I can get them without revealing myself. I’d rather not do that until I know more of what is going on. I know Albus has been looking into the diary as well. Not too much because of what’s going on with Black, but he looks worried sometimes, which means it has to be bad. He hasn’t told me anything, though.”

“What’re you going do, then?”

“I know the titles, I’ll see if I can find them somewhere else.”

It didn’t take Harry long to figure out what he meant. Last summer’s experience made it easy.

“Knockturn Alley? Won’t you have trouble there? I heard all the dark wizards go there, and I got the impression most wizards know one another. They’ll see you’re not one.”

Marco shrugged.

“That won’t be a problem. Many people enter there disguised, either with spells or polyjuice. The appearance doesn’t tell you much in there unless someone isn’t disguised. It’s more a matter of attitude: if you look shifty, insecure or suspicious, you’ll attract attention; act like you own the place and no one will question your presence there.”

  


* * *

  


Marco hadn’t been lying when he had explained to Ace how things worked in Knockturn Alley. People like Lucius Malfoy, who believed themselves above others, didn’t bother to hide their identity; the same could be said for others like Hagrid, who bought here but didn’t come for anything really illegal, only rare or shady, and didn’t see the point in hiding. However, many people did hide, mostly those who wished to keep an appearance of model and respectable citizens and didn’t want to be subjected to the gossip that would spread if they were spotted here: Marco had felt the presence of more than one high standing ministry officer from someone that most certainly didn’t look at all like them. Most people kept to the same disguise, because sellers were usually suspicious of new faces and it saved them time, and Marco took advantage of that.

It had been years since he had last come here –he had to be careful, as the same man showing up, unchanged, during too many years in a row would have arisen suspicion— but ever since Albus’ plan to lure Voldemort to Hogwarts using the Philosopher’s Stone he had dropped by from time to time to see if he caught any rumours. That meant now he wasn’t met with as much suspicion as a new face would have been, because people recognized his face as that of a previous customer.

Now he was at Borgin and Burkes, a place as good as any to begin, browsing the display of books in search of the titles he had memorized, but also anything that looked like it could be of use.

The bell above the door chimed.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy! Welcome to our humble establishment. How can we be of assistance to you today?” He heard Borgin’s simpering voice, and turning around Marco confirmed that Lucius Malfoy was the one that had just entered the store.

Turning his attention back to the books, he kept half an ear on the conversation at the counter in case they said anything of use. It wasn’t the case, Malfoy was just selling some items he had ‘found’ at home –he probably didn’t want to risk another inspection, which was likely to happen now that his standing had fallen somewhat after he was kicked from the Board of Governors. When Borgin left the counter, Marco could feel Malfoy’s eyes land on him, and knew he was sizing up the unknown face.

Marco ignored him, which could be taken both as him not noticing or simply not caring. Malfoy wouldn’t see anything off about him, Marco had made sure of it: he had procured very expensive dark purple robes –looking rich was a good way to get shopkeepers to show you their more valuable items, and he was very rich, after all— he didn’t even have to pretend to look sure of himself and Malfoy wouldn’t make anything of his physical appearance because, as everybody else, he would assume it was polyjuice. Marco’s appearance was too remarkable that nobody would have forgotten seeing him before in a community as small as the wizarding world, after all.

Marco put back in place a book of potions that hadn’t contained any useful information –though it had ensured he wouldn’t feel like eating for a day at least— and moved to look at the upper shelf. Even with his height, he had to crane his neck upwards to read the titles properly. There weren’t any of the titles he was looking for, and nothing else caught his attention.

Sighing, Marco moved away from the shelves. He had guessed it would be hard to find any of those books, but he really hadn’t wanted to go for the other option. Unfortunately, in the last few decades the number of shops that sold dark items had diminished considerably, and he didn’t have many choices. Of all the people he knew sold these objects, the most likely to find them was Borgin, and he was also the most likely to do it for someone who wasn’t a well-known dark wizard, as long as the payment was good.

Deciding on the book with the flashiest title —Tom Riddle had a thing for being flashy, and the best way to trace someone’s steps was by attempting to think like them— Marco settled unobtrusively next to one of the expositors farther from the counter, from where he could still hear perfectly everything that was being said— and tried to figure out the best way to get Borgin to find _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ for him and, at the same time, leave him convinced he wasn’t dealing with anyone from the Ministry. A book like that could earn someone a stay in Azkaban, and thus, if he wanted it, he had to seem as unlikely to report Borgin as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'll say the books mentioned here are all canon. I checked :)
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> And here is the fanart for this chapter. All six pieces are by Red Pirana :D
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> Marco checking Albus’ papers:  
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> Marco and Severus drinking together:  
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> Harry leaving Privet Drive:  
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> Harry at Diagon Alley  
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> Flying contest (inspired by the mention of the conversation)  
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> Marco at Borgin and Burkes  
> 


	17. The dementors

Harry woke up the last day of August feeling the opposite way than how most children did in their last day of the summer holidays before they had to go back to school. Exploring Diagon Alley had been both an interesting and fun experience, he wouldn’t deny that, but Harry couldn’t wait to go back to Hogwarts. He wanted to see his friends Ron and Hermione, he wanted to be able to hang out with Marco without having to worry about his annoying babysitters, and he wanted to be able to do magic.

As it was his last day in the Alley, Harry decided he would spoil himself a little —he conveniently forgot that spoiling himself was basically what he had been doing the entire month— and headed for Quidditch Quality Supplies after eating breakfast, where he could take one last look at the beautiful Firebolt. The storefront was packed with people —mostly children, teenagers and their parents— drooling at the racing broom, and it took a skilful combination of pushing, ducking and stepping on people’s toes to be able to reach the front row of the crowd.

His next stop was Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, where he planned to eat as much ice cream as his stomach could take, his particular way of saying goodbye to the delicious treats for the foreseeable future.

There, he was surprised to find Ron and Hermione, who had been waiting for him at his usual table because Tom, from the Leaky Cauldron, had told them Harry came here often when they had asked about him.

Harry went to ask Florean Fortescue for the biggest ice cream available —his usual order, really— of whatever flavour Fortescue chose and then sat with Ron and Hermione.

“How did you know to look for me at the Leaky Cauldron?” Harry asked them once he had his giant sugar bomb before him, ignoring the disapproving look that Hermione —whose parents were dentists and who had settled for a small and frankly sad-looking cone with a single vanilla scoop— was giving him.

“Dad,” Ron —who had a far more decent sized ice cream in hand— said, and of course that word was explanation enough. Arthur Weasley worked at the Ministry of Magic, after all, and Harry was sure that the rumour mill had ensured his ‘accident’ with Marge and the consequences of it were no secret.

“Did you _really_ blow up your aunt, Harry?” Hermione asked about said accident and, as impossible as it should have been, her disapproving gaze worsened.

“She’s not my aunt. And she got off easy,” Harry muttered, and Ron burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny, Ron,” Hermione scolded him to no avail, “and don’t say things like that, Harry. I’m surprised they didn’t expel you.”

“Oh, don’t be.”

He had obviously caught her off guard with that statement.

“What do you mean?”

Harry made a show of looking around, both at the shop and out at the street, before leaning forward, elbows resting on the table.

“I’ll tell you on the train,” he whispered. He didn’t know if any of his babysitters was using any means, either magical or a more classical muggle one, to listen in on them, but he didn’t want to discuss Sirius Black and how he knew about him and about what was going on here and risk to be overheard. If anybody was listening, let them wonder about what Harry knew or what he thought he knew.

Ron and Hermione nodded, thankfully catching onto the fact that Harry had a reason to be secretive and not pushing for more information here.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed, leaning back on his chair. “So, have you got all your new books and stuff?” he asked, changing the topic.

From there, the day went on almost entirely smoothly. Ron’s parents had bought him a new wand, and it was a beautiful sight to behold. The wand in itself wasn’t anything special, it was just a stick of wood like all other wands to the inexperienced eye, but its mere presence in Ron’s hand meant that they no longer had to worry about the menace that his previous wand had been last year.

Ron and Hermione had bought their school books already, but they still had a couple of purchases to make. Hermione’s parents had given her some money as an early birthday present, and she surprised Harry and Ron by saying she wasn’t going to spend it on books. Instead, she was planning on buying an owl. Ron, on his part, said he wanted someone to take a look at his rat, Scabbers, who, in Harry’s opinion, looked more dead than alive. Thus, they decided to head for the Magical Menagerie, where they could do both things.

That visit was the reason the day only went _almost_ smoothly. A giant orange cat tried to eat Scabbers, and, much to Ron’s consternation, Hermione decided to buy said cat, whose name was Crookshanks. This event turned into a round of bickering, and Harry decided to stay out of it, wisely keeping to himself that he kind of liked Crookshanks, because Ron was angry enough already. But, really, Crookshanks seemed to know what he wanted, even if Harry thought he could have better taste in food: Scabbers would probably give Crookshanks food poisoning, seeing how sick he looked.

 

* * *

 

 

Meeting the Weasley family again proved to be interesting.

Percy, who had been made Head Boy this year, was even more pompous than usual, greeting Harry with a solemn handshake as if Harry was some important acquaintance instead of his little brother’s best friend who couldn’t care less about the weight his name carried in the Wizarding World.

Fred and George, meanwhile, were as refreshing to see as ever. They were making every and all effort to mock Percy about both his attitude and his having been made Head Boy, and Harry may or may not have enjoyed a little too much their antics.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over him just like she had last year, clicking her tongue and deciding he was too thin despite Harry’s insatiable appetite, his penchant for trying to turn into a human black hole whenever he ate and his decidedly unhealthy consumption of sweets this past month.

Ginny still blushed whenever she saw him but, much to Harry’s surprise, she no longer became impossibly clumsy around him, and Harry suspected he had her conversations with Marco to thank for that: Harry was sure that, had he saved her on his own at the end of last year, then the situation would be even more awkward than the past summer had been around her.

Mr. Weasley looked somewhat tired, which, Harry supposed, wasn’t so strange given that, as Mr. Weasley told him, the Ministry had removed a good part of its personnel from their usual posts to help instead with the search of Sirius Black. A search that wasn’t giving any results yet.

That reminded Harry of something Marco had told him: the Ministry had decided to place the guards of Azkaban around Hogwarts if Black wasn’t caught before the start of term, and Marco had warned Harry in no unclear terms to _stay the fuck away from the guards_. The way Marco had said it had sent shivers down Harry’s back: Marco didn’t worry about many things, and Harry could count with the fingers of one hand and still have digits to spare how many times he had seen Marco so serious. Harry wasn’t eager at all to discover what was so bad about those prison guards.

Maybe he would ask Hermione to look them up in the library. Although it was more likely she would decide to do it on her own before Harry even had the chance to ask.

That night, much to his amusement, Harry discovered that Mr. Weasley was a terrible liar. Mr. Weasley told them the Ministry would lend them two cars the next morning to go to King’s Cross and, when Percy asked the reason for this, he tried to make them believe it was because he had asked a favour. He was almost as bad a liar as Luffy had been. Harry knew the reason behind the loan was his presence there, and the Ministry’s worry that Black might decide to attack him on the way to the station.

 

* * *

 

 

Back in the pet shop, Ron had bought a tonic in an attempt to try to improve Scabbers’ health, but had later forgotten it downstairs in the Leaky Cauldron when they had all headed up to bed. Harry, whose room was now next door to Ron and Percy’s, had offered to go retrieve it, taking the chance to escape from hearing Percy’s accusations that Ron had stolen his Head Boy badge, a ridiculous accusation when anybody with two working brain cells could think of two far more likely suspects.

On his way downstairs, Harry crossed paths with said two suspects, who had effectively taken the badge and modified it.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry had to stop in the hallway because Mrs. and Mr. Weasley were arguing at his destination. About him and about Black. Mr. Weasley, it seemed, wanted to tell him about the danger he was in, a feeling Harry appreciated, while Mrs. Weasley didn’t, afraid that the truth would upset him too much. Harry almost scoffed at this. As far as she knew, Harry had killed a basilisk last year —which he _could_ have done if Marco hadn’t called dibs on it first— and she was worried that he would be terrified of a mere human mass murderer?

He honestly hated being treated like a child.

 

* * *

 

 

Getting into the cars and actually managing to leave for the station was a much faster process this year than it had been the previous one. No one forgot anything, and they left on time with only minimal drama regarding Percy’s girlfriend’s picture —someone had dropped tea on her nose and now she refused to be seen— and their new feline companion. Harry feared drama about Crookshanks would be a constant this year.

Before boarding the Hogwarts Express, Mr. Weasley pulled Harry aside and tried to tell him about Sirius Black, though it obviously cost him some effort to do so as he had promised he wouldn’t. Harry saved him the trouble by telling him he already knew, using the conversation he had overheard the previous night as the explanation of how he had discovered about it. Mr. Weasley asked him to promise that he wouldn’t go after Black. As a renowned pirate in a former life —though he still considered himself a pirate to this day— Harry had no qualms about lying, and Mr. Weasley was so worked up about everything that Harry’s negligible deception skills were more than enough to get the job done.

When they were finally on the train, Ron remembered what Harry had said yesterday and told Ginny, who was with them, to leave. Harry stopped her before she could go.

“She knows a lot already, it’s stupid that she leaves now,” he said in answer to Ron’s annoyed look.

The four of them headed down the hallway in search of an empty compartment, but, as they had gotten onto the train mere minutes before it left the station, the closest thing they could find was one in which a ragged-looking man was sleeping.

Professor R. J. Lupin, Hermione read on his suitcase.

Once the door was closed, Harry proceeded to tell them everything he knew about Sirius Black.

Ron and Hermione were close to panicking by the time Harry was done with his story. It was Ginny, oddly enough, the one who took the news more calmly.

“Marco will keep an eye out too, right?” she cut through Hermione’s warnings about not to go looking for Black —Hermione had blanched when Harry had said he wanted to kill Black.

The three turned to look at Ginny.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry answered.

“Then it’s not only Dumbledore and the Azkaban guards who are after him.” And of course Ginny trusted Marco so much: he had saved her, too, after all.

Hermione turned to Harry again.

“At least promise me you’ll take Marco with you if you go looking for Black,” she asked, obviously realizing she wouldn’t be able to change Harry’s mind.

“Alright,” Harry agreed. It wasn’t as if Marco wouldn’t follow him either way.

 

* * *

 

 

Once the conversation about Black was settled, they had moved on to other topics: namely, Hogsmeade. Harry was glad about Ginny’s presence then, because this way he wasn’t the only one envious for not being able to go. Still, he extracted a promise from Ron and Hermione to bring him a lot of sweets each trip.

He would give them the money, of course.

After that, Crookshanks tried to eat Scabbers again —Harry was thinking about getting him some rat-shaped treats or something, to see if he would drop his attempts. Admiration for Crookshanks’ determination or not, Ron and Hermione would end up having a very serious argument one of these days if just once they weren’t there to prevent Crookshanks from succeeding.

The trip went on fairly calmly. Professor Lupin slept through everything, even when the food cart arrived and Hermione made an attempt to wake him up. As always, Harry bought a good deal of sweets, spending half the money in his pocket, and they all ate —Hermione keeping to the few healthier options Harry had added just for her benefit, though she did fall to the temptation of sugar a couple of times.

They received what Harry now referred to as Malfoy’s traditional start of term visit, but it was cut short by Professor Lupin’s presence in the compartment. As far as Harry was concerned, retreating because of the mere presence of a professor was a sign of cowardice, and saying so out loud earned him an indignant scolding from Hermione and even dubious looks from Ron and Ginny.

 

* * *

 

 

It was dark outside already when the train started to slow down. According to Hermione it was too soon for them to have reached the Hogsmeade station. As it was raining, they couldn’t see much outside the window.

“So why are we stopping?” asked Ron.

Harry moved to the door and stuck his head out into the corridor, trying to see if he could discover what was happening. Aside from many other people doing the same from their own compartments, there didn’t seem to be anything odd.

The train jolted to a halt, followed by many bangs from luggage falling —including inside his compartment— and then suddenly all the lamps he could see in the train flickered off.

 “What’s going on?” said Ron’s voice from behind Harry.

“Ouch!” gasped Hermione. “Ron, that was my foot!”

Harry moved back in and edged towards his seat, careful not to step on anyone’s body parts.

“Do you think we’ve broken down?” that was Ron again, who seemed to be the most unnerved by the situation.

“I don’t know,” it was Ginny who answered him, and Harry heard some shuffling.

“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said. “I think people are coming aboard…”

“That can’t be good,” Harry muttered. “Shouldn’t they have warned us or something?”

The compartment’s door opened and Harry, his fighting reflexes kicking in, reached out in time to stop the fall of a body that would otherwise have landed on his legs.

“Sorry. Do you know what’s going on?” It was Neville. Harry moved to take his shoulders and help him stand.

“Hey, Neville.”

 “Harry? Is that you? What’s happening?”

“No idea. Sit down...”

A loud hissing and a yelp signalled Neville had tried to sit on Crookshanks and Crookshanks had probably retaliated. A soft thump indicated Crookshanks had jumped down from the seat he had been curled on.

 “I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,” Hermione said, but Harry grabbed her by the arm when she passed him.

“No, wait.” There was something off in the air. He couldn’t tell what it was, but he didn’t like it.

“What?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Oh, great,” came Ron’s maybe slightly on edge voice.

“Any idea what it is?” Ginny asked from her position next to the window. She sounded worried.

“No. You said someone came onto the train, Ron?”

“Yeah... Wait, you don’t think they’re dangerous, do you?” And now Ron sounded definitely nervous.

“Dangerous?!” squeaked Neville from next to Harry. “Who?!”

 “Quiet!” an unknown and hoarse voice cut in. It seemed Professor Lupin was finally awake.

In a moment, a dim light filled the compartment, light from what looked to be some flames in Lupin’s hand.

_Nice_ , Harry thought.

Harry scanned Lupin’s face. He looked tired, but his eyes were alert. Which was good, because that meant he at least could identify a potentially dangerous situation. That made him more qualified for the job than his predecessors, in Harry’s opinion.

“Stay where you are,” Lupin said, standing up as he did.

Then the door to the compartment began to slowly slide open and Harry moved his hand to grab his wand, cursing mentally because he hadn’t heard any footsteps approaching. As the door opened, it was like a frigid gust of air came in, much colder than the temperature had to be outside the train. Harry clenched his fingers around the wand and pulled it out of his pocket, eyes fixed on the cloaked tall figure that filled the doorframe up to the ceiling.

The being at the door —the chills going up and down Harry’s spine made him reluctant to assume it was human— drew in a breath, and the cold intensified, to the point where it seeped into Harry’s bones and into his veins. Before he could react in any way, terrified screaming, a woman’s voice, filled his ears, and then everything went black around him.

 

* * *

 

 

_It should hurt. A small corner of Ace’s brain was aware that it should_ hurt _. Hurt so much that he_ _sh_ _ouldn’t_ _be able to_ _move and his voice_ _sh_ _ouldn’t come. Then again, he could barely move, and his voice came out so low it might as well not have been there._

_He hadn’t felt his knees touching the ground. Somehow, he could still stay up without the aid of his hands._

_He was vaguely aware of the bastard behind him speaking, but Ace couldn’t care less about what_ _Akainu_ _had to say._ _Ac_ _e was trying to focus his eyes forward._

_There was Luffy._

_Luffy’_ _s eyes were wide. He didn’t look good, with all the blood on his face and that scared expression._

_Luffy shouldn’t have been to be here._

_He felt Akainu move behind him, no doubt to deliver the finishing blow, but the attack never came._

_The screams around him allowed Ace to know who had blocked it._

_Jinbe... That idiot. Ace hoped he was still alive after that. There was no use in protecting Ace now, he was already dead._

_Oh, yes, that was his voice. What was Jinbe saying? No, no... He couldn’t do that._ _Akainu_ _was too strong, Jinbe would just get himself killed if he stood up to_ _him_ _._

_Ace didn’t want anyone else to die because of him. Too many people had died already, and it was all his fault._

_Someone else was here now._ _Vista and... Marco?_

_Oh, damn... Marco..._

_Shit, it seemed today was his day of getting people he loved in trouble._

I’m sorry...

_His knees couldn’t hold him up anymore and Ace fell forward. Luffy caught him._

_“... I’m sorry, Luffy...” he spoke, his voice barely coming out. It hurt his lungs to speak, but that hardly mattered at this point._

_“Ace, we have to hurry and treat your-!!”_

_“I’m sorry I couldn’t let you save me properly...” he interrupted, because_ _Luffy_ _was in denial now, but Ace didn’t have much time. He knew it, and there were some things he wanted to say. “Forgive me...” He could never apologize enough, not for this. Not for putting Luffy through Impel Down and this hellish war, not for forcing his family to fight the world, not for driving his father to the point of deciding that the only way of getting them out of here was to sacrifice himself, not for making Marco lose the most important people in his life all in one day..._

_Not for being unable to step back from such obvious baiting and ruining everyone’s efforts and sacrifices._

_“What are you talking about?! Don’t say stupid things like that!!”_

_“It’s no good...” he panted, and it took two attempts to get his next breath in. “I can tell my own end has come... He’s burned up my insides...!! I’m not coming back from this... so, Luffy... Listen...”_

_“What are you talking about?! Ace, are you going to die...? No, you promised... You said you wouldn’t die!!”_

_He had, hadn’t he? Well, that just made his record all that worse: he couldn’t even keep a promise._

_“Yeah... you know, if it wasn’t for Sabo,” how could he do this to Luffy after what had happened to Sabo? What sort of brother was he? “and having a little brother like you to look out for... I would never have... even... wanted to live. Nobody else wanted me to, after all...”_

_He remembered just too well all the times he had asked what should happen if Gol D. Roger had had a son. Everybody had said he should die, that he wouldn’t deserve to live._

_“So it’s only natural... Oh, yeah... if you ever run into Dadan, could you tell her goodbye from me...? It’s weird, now that I’m about to die, I even miss that idiot...” He hadn’t thought much about Dadan lately, but she had taken care of him, and he did care about her in some way._

_“I have just... one regret...” or maybe two... He was sorry about many things, but regretting things he hadn’t done... “That I won’t be able to see... your dream come to pass... But I know you, you’ll pull it off for sure... you’re my brother, after all...!!” Ace didn’t doubt it for even a moment._

_“Just like we promised back then, I have no regrets... about how I’ve lived my life..._ _”_

_“No, you’re lying!!” Luffy protested. He was clinging to him, and his silence told Ace th_ _at Luffy_ _would enter in shock any moment now. He sent a thought to the fight behind them, asking Marco to make sure Luffy at least got out of this island alive. Ace couldn’t do anything for him now._

_“No, it’s true... It looks like what I really wanted in the end wasn’t fame or renown at all... It was an answer to the question... of whether I should have... been born...” And now, whatever the world had to say about it, he was glad to have lived._

_He gasped and took in another ragged breath. Speaking was almost impossible now._

_“My voice... is getting too quiet... Luffy, I want you to listen to what I say now... and tell it to the guys... afterwards... Pops...”_ Marco _... he didn’t have time to explain to Luffy... “Guys... and Luffy... Even though I’ve been good for nothing my whole life... Even though I carry the blood of a demon within me... You guys still loved me... Thank you...!!”_

_His right arm, wrapped around Luffy’s back, was failing now, and Ace had only the strength to swallow and let a grin take over his face before his strength faded_ _completely_ _and he fell. His eyes closed, but he didn’t touch the ground._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by RedPirana


	18. The worst memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really, really sorry. You can go ahead and kill me, because I've had this revised for a while and just... didn't post it.  
> On the bright side, I won't edit the chapters once we reach chapter 20, because from there on I stopped doing the aberration I've been removing so far.

As soon as the paralyzing despair that had accompanied the cold and the strange being at the door disappeared, Hermione lunged at the other seat. She didn’t need the lights, her eyes had now grown used enough to the darkness that she could make out the slumped form at the place where the soft thump had come from moments after the door had been opened. That was where Harry sat, and now he was collapsed against the compartment’s wall, both said wall and the backseat the only reason he was still up.

She didn’t need to see him to know he was unconscious, she could tell even before her hands found his cheeks. His skin was damp, and the feeling was enough to paralyze her for a few long seconds. By the time the lights flickered back on, however, Hermione had composed herself enough to start shaking him.

“Harry? Wake up, Harry!”

Her actions were enough to start drawing the others’ attention. Hermione hadn’t paid attention to anyone else, but a whimper made her turn and she saw Ginny was curled in on herself where she had been sitting before, face white and hands wrapped protectively over her head. Neville, next to Harry, wasn’t doing much better, and the only ones who seemed somewhat composed were Ron and Professor Lupin.

Ron moved from his place to sit next to Ginny, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. For his part, Professor Lupin walked closer to them and crouched down next to Hermione, before a trembling Neville. He placed a hand on Neville’s shoulder and began to say something.

Hermione turned her attention back to Harry again. He hadn’t reacted at all and, biting her lips, Hermione decided to try harder. She raised a hand and slapped him, not too hard, on one cheek. He groaned.

“Harry!” she called him again, and repeated her action. At the third slap, Harry’s eyes cracked open a fraction and Hermione sighed in relief.

Harry’s eyesappeared behind his orange-framed glasses. Hermione had the distinct feeling that Harry wasn’t looking at her, but _past her_. Whatever Harry saw, he didn’t like it, for his eyes darkened.

“Harry, are you okay?” she asked softly, finally drawing his attention. He nodded minutely, and she had no trouble seeing the lie in that gesture.

“What was that?” Ginny, now curled next to Ron, asked in a low voice.

A loud snap startled them all. Hermione turned to see Professor Lupin breaking a big piece of chocolate into smaller ones.

“Here, eat these. They’ll help,” Professor Lupin told them, handing one of the pieces to each of them.

When Harry didn’t immediately wolf his piece down, Hermione knew something was really wrong.

“What was that... thing?” Hermione asked, repeating Ginny’s earlier question.

“A dementor. One of the dementors of Azkaban.”

Hermione had read mentions of dementors a few times, but had never looked into more detail about the topic. There had always been something else to occupy her attention. Now she felt like she should really have bothered to learn more about them.

“Eat,” Professor Lupin repeated. “It’ll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me.”

He exited the compartment, and the rest were left in an uncomfortable silence.

“Are you sure you are alright?” Hermione asked Harry again, because he still hadn’t moved at all. Her right hand was still on his shoulder and she could easily feel how tense he was.

Harry nodded, and this time he bent his head down, staring down at his lap.

Hermione realized she wouldn’t get anything out of him in this state, and maybe now was not the best time to try —Neville was here, after all, and as good a person as he was, he didn’t know anything and it wasn’t her place to reveal things to him. Instead, she decided to make Harry follow Professor Lupin’s instructions. He had managed to get that thing to leave, and that proved he at least had some knowledge. Besides, he was a professor, wasn’t he?

“Eat your chocolate, Harry,” she prompted. He did, but with an air of apathy Hermione had never seen in him when he was eating.

Clenching her teeth, the she stood up and moved back to her previous seat.

“...What happened?” Harry asked finally, and Hermione wasn’t sure if she would have preferred he didn’t speak. He sounded hollow, nothing like the Harry she was used to.

“Well... that thing —the dementor— stood there and looked around,” she tried to explain. She wasn’t so sure of what had happened herself, what with the feelings that had overcome her so suddenly.”I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its face, and you... you... I thought you were having a fit or something. You went sort of rigid and fell back and started twitching.” And muttering something, but no one mentioned that. It had been low, and Hermione hadn’t been able to make any words out. “Then Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked toward the dementor, and pulled out his wand,” she continued, the facts clearing out in her head as she recounted them, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go.’ But the dementor didn’t move, so Professor Lupin muttered something, and a silvery thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around and sort of glided away...” And Hermione didn’t like being so incoherent in her speech, but she believed she had an excuse for it at the moment.

“It was horrible,” Neville said, his first words in the entire time, “Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?”

“I felt weird,” said Ron, moving a little in place, “Like I’d never be cheerful again...” He tightened his arm around Ginny when she whimpered.

And that, the feelings, were the problem. Because it hadn’t been only feelings, had it? Hermione remembered a short flash, of one of those horrible days back in primary school when her classmates would mock her for being a know-it-all. The memory, to be more precise, had been of the day she remembered as the worst of those. And, if she had remembered that, what had _Harry_ remembered?

Ginny, by the way she shook, Hermione could guess had remembered Riddle and the Chamber, but Harry... whatever it was, it must have been from back when he was a pirate, and she suspected it wouldn’t be anything any of them was prepared to deal with.

It didn’t take them long to reach Hogsmeade, and once they stepped out of the train Hermione made sure to stay close to Harry. She may not be able to help with whatever he had remembered —she wasn’t even sure she wanted to _know_ what he had remembered, if she had to be honest— but she, at least, wanted to provide some form of support.

Harry was eerily subdued during the entire trip to the school, he didn’t even react to the carriages pulled by invisible horses that took them there —and he hadn’t seen them last year, as he had come to the school by illegal flying Ford Anglia. He did shiver, however, when they approached the school doors and the two dementors stationed there. Hermione saw his cheek sink in a way that indicated he was biting the inner side of it.

Draco Malfoy, the little idiot, approached them when they climbed down from the carriage, and began to mock Harry for fainting. Any other time, Hermione knew, his taunts would have cost Malfoy a broken nose at the very least —it was impressive that Malfoy seemed to forget that fact every start of term— but today Harry ignored him completely. Looking at him, Hermione would say he wasn’t so much ignoring Malfoy as it was that he simply hadn’t _heard_ him. Harry simply pushed him out of the way —a small part of Hermione was satisfied to see Malfoy land on the muddy ground on his ass— and walked to the school doors. She hurried to follow, Ron and Ginny on their heels.

They were almost to the doors of the Great Hall —and here Hermione was hoping the banquet would draw out Harry’s abysmal table manners and voracious appetite, because she was starting to become really unnerved by this quiet version of him— when Professor McGonagall called out to them.

“Potter! Granger! I want to see you both!”

They stopped and turned to look at her. Exchanging a glance with Ron to tell him both he and Ginny should go on ahead of them, Hermione took hold of Harry’s arm and walked in Professor McGonagall’s direction, advancing with some effort amongst the throng of students entering into the Great Hall.

“There’s no need to look worried,” she told them, because Hermione might have looked just that way.“I just want a word in my office.”

They followed her up the marble staircase and through the corridors until they reached her office. There, Professor McGonagall motioned them to sit down on the chairs before her desk and then moved on to sit herself on the one behind it.

“Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you had taken ill on the train, Potter.”

Hermione wasn’t really surprised that Harry didn’t react in outrage at the possibly perceived insinuation that he was weak, but that didn’t mean the lack of a reaction didn’t worry her.

There was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey came into the office.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Madam Pomfrey, who didn’t seem to know what had happened and must have been called in to check on Harry. Any other time, her assumption would have been true. “I suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous again?”

“It was a dementor, Poppy,” said Professor McGonagall.

That changed Madam Pomfrey’s disposition, who began to fuss over Harry and check him for anything off, all the while muttering to herself. Hermione was glad to see a twitch in Harry’s eye when Madam Pomfrey called him ‘delicate’, but she thought a voiced protest would have been much better.

“What does he need?” asked Professor McGonagall after a while. “Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?”

“Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very least,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to peer into Harry’s eyes. She had moved his glasses up to his forehead for that.

“He already has. Professor Lupin gave it to all of us,” Hermione told them.

“Did he, now?” said Madam Pomfrey approvingly. “So we’ve finally got a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?” She sounded inordinately pleased about it and, now that Hermione was over that silly crush she didn’t want to _ever_ hear about again, she could understand the last year must have been hellish for Madam Pomfrey.

“How do you feel, Potter?” Professor McGonagall asked him.

“I’m fine.” It wasn’t true, Hermione knew, but at least now he sounded convincing enough, and anyone who hadn’t seen his reaction at the compartment would probably think his calm was normal after the experience. At least that seemed to be Professor McGonagall’s conclusion.

“Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, then we can go down to the feast together.”

Harry nodded and left, and Hermione turned eagerly to Professor McGonagall, anxious to know how they would manage her schedule so that she could attend all the classes she wanted to.

Harry left, following Madam Ponfrey out.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment Marco had heard Albus read Remus Lupin’s letter to Minerva, he had wanted to kill someone. Preferably that self-important clown known as the Minister of Magic, who no doubt would tell Albus tomorrow, when Albus asked about it, that it must have slipped his mind to inform Albus the dementors were going to inspect the fucking Hogwarts Express to ensure Black didn’t enter the school on it. While the students were there.

Marco had left the office as soon as he heard Minerva say that she would check on Ace —who had _fainted_ at the dementor’s presence— and was now waiting in the hallway, out of sight from the door to Minerva’s office, for Ace and Hermione to leave.

He had seen Ace, listlessly following Hermione and Minerva down the corridor as he stared at his feet, and had barely managed to stop himself from going to check on him right there and then. Not long after, Poppy Pomfrey had hurried down the corridor to the same office, and now Marco watched, from his place behind one of the many statues placed in the hallways’ alcoves, as Poppy walked out of the office again, followed by a still silent Ace. She left, headed for the Hospital Wing, but Ace didn’t, no doubt waiting for Hermione to come out —Marco remembered Hermione had registered into more subjects than she could normally take, and guessed Minerva was taking care of it.

Marco knew he didn’t have much time, but he stepped out of his hiding place.

“Ace.”

Ace raised his head to look at him, and Marco felt the blood in his veins freeze. The look directed at him was no longer vacant or distant, but instead it was filled with so many emotions it was hard to define. Desperation, maybe, could be said to be the most predominant of them. It was an expression Marco had seen before on that face: once, on an older version of that face, from a distance, long ago in an infernal battlefield, staring out at all the people fighting and dying to try to save him from execution.

Now, Marco wasn’t stupid. He had been aware that Ace didn’t remember the exact circumstances of his death. He had known that he had died at some point when he was twenty, but had never asked, and Marco had never volunteered any information either. He would have been perfectly happy if Ace had never remembered that horrible day that still remained fresh in Marco’s memory after so long.

“...Marco.”

That soft whisper of his name broke him from his stupor, and in two long paces Marco was before Ace, bending down to wrap him into a tight embrace.

He felt Ace tense for a second, before going practically boneless in his arms. Small hands clung to his shirt, clenching the fabric between their fingers as Ace pressed his face into Marco’s neck. Marco wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and buried his other hand into Ace’s dark locks.

Sensing that Minerva and Hermione moved inside the office, he whispered:

“Meet me in the classroom after curfew.”

He felt Ace nod into his neck before pulling back, and by the time Minerva and Hermione exited the office he was back in his hiding place behind the statue.

 

* * *

 

 

When Ron saw Harry and Hermione finally enter the Great Hall after Professor McGonagall, he was glad to see that Harry looked a little better. He still was subdued, but at least made the effort to glare around at the people pointing at him with a hint of his usual bad mood in regards to the rumour mill. Also, when Dumbledore announced Lupin’s incorporation as a teacher Harry clapped, just as Ron and all the others who had been in the compartment did, because they had seen enough to guess Lupin might be a good teacher —finally, they needed one of those for Defence Against the Dark Arts.

It was obvious Harry wasn’t back to being himself, though, when Ron tried to point out the way Snape looked at Lupin. Even for Snape’s standards, it was a really hateful look, even worse than the ones he had directed at Lockhart the previous year. Harry only nodded.

Harry’s second almost normal reaction came when Dumbledore announced that Hagrid would be the new Care of Magical Creatures’ Professor. Ron hadn’t seen that one coming, though he probably should have, seeing their course book. Harry clapped again, and even mustered up a smile to direct at Hagrid at the head table.

After the announcements were over, however, Harry seemed to retreat back into himself. Both Ron and Hermione spent the entire dinner putting food on his plate, of which he ate some, but not nearly enough for what he usually ate.

At some point, Ron caught sight of Marco —in his small phoenix form— perched on Dumbledore’s throne-like chair, and Marco nodded at him. Ron wasn’t exactly sure what Marco meant with it, but he hoped it was something along the lines that he knew how to pull Harry out of this creepy shell of silence he had surrounded himself with since the encounter with the dementor.

 

* * *

 

 

It was barely past curfew when Marco sensed Ace slip out of the Gryffindor third year boys’ dorm and cross half of the seventh floor to the classroom they had taken as theirs almost two years ago.

The door opened, and Marco could see how, as soon as Ace’s eyes landed on him, the mask of no doubt carefully feigned calmness melted away to show the same tumultuous expression as before.

“You remembered?” Marco asked before the silence could drag out.

Even in the darkness of the room, he could see the hand that Ace still had on the handle of the door tremble. Taking a step forward into the room, Ace suddenly turned around and kicked the door closed with enough strength to make it shake in place after slamming shut. Had Filch or Mrs. Norris been nearby, the resulting bang would have drawn them here.

Marco stood up from the desk he had been sitting on and walked closer to Ace’s shaking form.

“...I’m sorry...” he heard Ace say, barely a whisper.

Marco didn’t falter, though his body wanted to, because he remembered hearing those same words so long ago, right before he managed to kick Akainu away enough from Ace and Luffy that Akainu couldn’t attack them so easily, and they hurt now as much as they had back then. Hurrying forward, he grabbed Ace by the arm, turned him around and wrapped his arms around him again.

“Don’t apologize. Not for that.”

“But I messed up, it was all my fault,” Ace insisted, not listening to him. “If I hadn’t been an idiot and followed after Teach nothing of that would have happened.”

“You know those are the crew’s rules,” Marco said. And they still were, not in the past, because the Whitebeard Pirates still existed. Here stood two of their commanders to prove that.

“You all told me not to go.”

“I don’t remember that,” Marco argued. They had decided, a long time ago, that it didn’t matter how that happened. Pops had said he had ordered Ace to go, and as far as the crew and the world were concerned that was exactly what had happened.

“...That’s bullshit.”

They didn’t say anything for a while. Ace’s head was pressed against Marco’s chest, and Ace’s hands clutched once more his shirt. His next question was spoken so softly that had they not been so close Marco would have missed it.

“...Pops died that day, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

When Ace lost all the strength in his body, instead of holding him up, Marco carefully slid down until they were both kneeling on the cold stone floor. Now, with Ace’s face pressed into his neck, Marco could feel the wetness on his cheeks against his skin.

“Fuck... I’m-“

“Don’t you dare,” Marco cut him, tightening his arms around Ace and bringing him closer. “If Pops heard you blaming yourself for his death he’d punch you so hard your first months on the Moby Dick would seem a vacation in comparison.”

Ace chuckled hollowly.

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

Ace stayed silent for so long afterwards that, had Marco not known better thanks to his haki, he would have thought Ace had fallen asleep.

“Can I stay here?” It didn’t fit Ace at all, to ask a question in such a small and vulnerable voice. Marco nodded, aware that he wouldn’t have let him go back to his room in this state even if Ace had asked him to.

Manoeuvring carefully, Marco slid an arm under Ace’s knees and wrapped the other around his shoulders before standing up. It was a statement to Ace’s current state of mind that he didn’t protest the way Marco had chosen to move them. Marco walked to the wall and sat against it, settling Ace with his legs across his lap and his upper body resting against Marco’s torso, head on his shoulder.

Maybe, Marco thought, he should bring some pillows here. A mattress or something like that, too.

“There’s a lot of stuff I don’t remember yet,” Ace said against his chest and, though Marco was aware of that fact, he didn’t say it and instead waited to hear what Ace had to say, “but I noticed something. Back then... that day... there was something off. Not that I wasn’t thinking straight or anything...” Ace trailed off. Marco could feel him swallow and steel himself. He squeezed him on the shoulder for a moment in encouragement. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it... not since I remembered, and you... well, there was something, about my thoughts, about you...” Again, he swallowed. “We were more than friends... or brothers, back then, weren’t we?”

Marco closed his eyes. He had known Ace didn’t remember that either, and it had been fine. Ace was just a boy still, and Marco had expected the memories, just like all others had until now, would come back in time. Probably when Ace’s hormones kicked in and he started to really be interested in sex. That was what Marco had thought would happen, at least. This, however...

He sighed.

“Yes, we were.”

Again, Ace shivered, and Marco brought him closer.

“Shit...”

“Don’t,” Marco cut him off once more before Ace could even begin to muster his apology.

Then Ace had moved and his arms were wrapped around Marco’s shoulders, head buried in his neck again, and Marco was clinging to Ace as much as Ace was clinging to Marco.

Ace had been crying silently still, and now there was a prickling feeling in the back of Marco’s eyes. He shook his head.

“Try to sleep, Ace. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Neither of them made any attempt to move.


	19. Of tea leaves and hippogriffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me bringing the next update in a timely manner :)

When Harry woke up the next morning, Marco was already awake, but hadn’t moved from his position as Harry’s pillow. Harry didn’t want to move, he still wasn’t feeling very well after remembering his death yesterday, but today classes started and skipping them would be a terrible idea. He shuddered at the thought of what the rumour mill would come up with to explain his absence after the encounter with the dementor yesterday. Or Hermione’s reaction, for that matter.

“Good morning,” Marco greeted.

“’Morning.” Rubbing at his eyes, Harry moved out of Marco’s lap —he wasn’t embarrassed of having slept like that, which was surprising because he would have expected to be— and groaned at the throbbing sensation that started at his legs. That hadn’t been the most comfortable of positions to sleep in, really.

He heard Marco chuckle.

“Sore?”

“Yeah. Not all of us have crazy regeneration powers, you know.”

He walked two steps away from the wall and decided that his morning stretching routine might help ease the soreness. Marco joined him, moving with an ease that proved his powers saved him even from having to deal with cramps. It was in situations like this that Harry had always envied those powers.

Then a thought, completely random and uncalled for, crossed his mind, and Harry choked in a laugh. He continued laughing.

“What?” Marco asked when Harry had to stop laughing to cough.

“Can you imagine...” he gasped out, “the picture we must’ve made yesterday?” A chuckle. It wasn’t funny, but after everything that had happened in the last twelve hours he just needed a reason to laugh. “The feared First and Second Division Commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates clinging to each other and crying like babies. The press would’ve loved it back then.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Harry ran into the Great Hall, breakfast was almost over and he barely had any time to grab something to eat. He was in such a hurry that he didn’t notice the noise coming from the Slytherin table until he had slid down on the bench next to George Weasley.

He raised his head when he heard loud laughter and saw the Slytherins were pointing at him.

“What’s got into them?”

Ron and Hermione, who were already there, exchanged glances. It was George who answered.

“They’re idiots, that’s what. Malfoy has been pretending to faint the entire breakfast, as if he didn’t piss himself when the dementors came to our end of the train.”

Harry frowned. He remembered vaguely that Malfoy had tried to laugh at him yesterday when they were entering the school. Well, that wouldn’t do, Harry didn’t feel like being exposed to constant reminders of the dementors for the next month or so, even less because those brats had no idea of what had really happened back on the train.

During Malfoy’s next re-enactment of the fainting, Harry discreetly pulled his wand out —one of the first things Marco had wanted him to learn was how to use his wand without others noticing he was doing it— and muttered the enchantment for the sticking hex, aiming it at Malfoy’s robes. When he tried to stand, his clothes were stuck to the floor.

There was general laughter at the scene, and Harry turned back to picking up food to eat on the way to class —there was no way he would be able to eat enough if he didn’t eat while walking, he hadn’t eaten much dinner last night after all. Ron was laughing, and so were the twins —Fred even gave him a thumbs up, and Harry wasn’t really surprised that they had figured out he had done it even if they hadn’t seen him do it— but what surprised Harry was the smile tugging at the corners of Hermione’s mouth. He had expected disapproval, but it was a much nicer reaction.

“Hurry up, we have to get to Divination before nine,” she said.

“What about your other classes?” Ron asked bemusedly as he stood up.

Harry scooped up an armful of napkin-wrapped food, and his friends reached out to help him carry it all.

“Other classes?” he asked before shoving three slices of bacon into his mouth. A fourth year Gryffindor girl sitting nearby grimaced at the sight.

“She has _three_ classes today at nine. That’s impossible.”

“Three?” Two crackers followed the bacon, swallowed down with a mouthful of the pumpkin juice Harry had balanced in his left hand.

“It’s nothing, I fixed it with Professor McGonagall yesterday,” she said in a way that suggested this wasn’t the first time she had said it.

They reached the North Tower, where the Divination class was taught, easily enough, though both Ron and Hermione got really tired of climbing stairs, no doubt because they weren’t used to physical exercise. Once there, however, they didn’t know where to go. Marco must have guessed it would happen, because he had followed them and now, after what Harry called his birth laugh, had motioned for them to follow. Contrary to the hallway where McGonagall’s office was —where there were no portraits— this area was full of frames, so Marco couldn’t transform back into a human.

The phoenix stopped next to a narrow spiral staircase and pointed to it with one wing. After another one of his bird laughs, he flew away.

“Is it just me, or he was laughing at us?”

“He was,” Harry answered through the last slice of toast. “I’m not sure why, though.”

Hermione looked at him dubiously.

“This _is_ the right place, isn’t it?”

“Must be. Leading us the wrong way isn’t the sort of prank he’d pull.” No, Marco was more into humiliating or nerve-wracking pranks.

“Well, let’s go,” Ron said with a sigh, looking morosely at the narrow steps they had to climb.

 

* * *

 

 

When he left the Divination classroom later that morning, Harry already knew what Marco had been laughing about. Professor Sybill Trelawney was a joke. She acted like a cheap fortune-teller, seemed to have a thing for predicting disgraces and now, thanks to her, most of his classmates thought he was about to die.

Harry had chosen to take Divination not only because he knew it was a real thing, but because there had been _two_ prophecies about him. One had already come to pass —here he was, reincarnated as a wizard— and the other, thanks to a certain megalomaniacal dark lord, was in the process of happening. He might have chosen a different subject, had he known how useless this one was. Dying because a dog had appeared on a tea cup? Please, that hadn’t happened even in the Grand Line, and _a lot_ of weird things had happened in the Grand Line. Hermione, whom the professor had offended by telling her she had no skill for the subject, agreed with him, while Ron was, like most other students, terrified for his life.

Harry’s belief that the prediction of his imminent death was fake was confirmed when Professor McGonagall told them that Trelawney predicted a student’s death every year and it had never come to pass.

By lunch time, Harry was so fed up that, after Ron and Hermione argued about the whole incident in Divination and Hermione left in a huff, he decided to grab some food —as much as he could carry— and go eat somewhere else until the lunch break was over.

He found himself sitting on a small stone amongst some tall rocks on the grounds, some distance away from the school and close to where his next class —Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid— was scheduled. He wasn’t surprised when Marco landed next to him and transformed, sitting on the damp grass next to Harry so that the rocks would hide him from view.

“I’ve heard you’re going to die,” he said as a way of greeting, and Harry scoffed.

“Yeah, just because there was a dog on my tea cup, I’m toast,” he muttered.

“Many wizards believe in the Grim, and some have died not long after claiming to have seen it.” Marco said it in such a way that made it clear he didn’t think the grim was a real thing.

“Yeah, Ron said his uncle saw one and died the next day, but, come on, I saw a big black dog this summer,” he had remembered about it during Transfiguration class, but had decided not to mention it to his friends because he knew that would alarm Ron even further, “and I’m still alive.”

“When did you see it?” Marco asked, turning his head to look at him.

“The day I left the Dursleys. There was this huge dog that followed me until I got to the apartment. It was just a street dog, looked very shabby and scrawny.”

Marco hummed.

“You could’ve warned me Trelawney was a fraud,” Harry said after a short silence.

“She’s not entirely a fraud.” That caught Harry’s attention.

“What do you mean?”

“She _is_ useless at consciously predicting the future, you’re not wrong there —and I’m sure, as you’ve had Transfiguration, that Minerva has insinuated as much already— but she’s also the person who made the prophecy about you and Voldemort.”

“WHAT?!” Harry sat up straight, looking at Marco with incredulous wide eyes. “You’re not serious. _Her_?! And they believed her?!”

Marco shrugged.

“I wasn’t there —I told you the prophecy had been told to Albus— but, from what I’ve heard, she entered into a sort of trance, and didn’t remember anything afterwards.”

“She could’ve faked it,” Harry insisted.

“Maybe, but whether the prophecy was originally genuine or not, the fact remains that Voldemort believes it’s true, and in the end that is all that matters.”

Harry had to admit Marco had a point there. If the crazy psychopath thought it was true, he would act accordingly, and everything else was irrelevant. Harry had to kill the guy. He wouldn’t have backed off of it either way —like hell— but the idea that it was _Trelawney_ who had basically decided he had to kill Voldemort didn’t sit well with him.

“How did Voldemort learn about the prophecy if it was told to Dumbledore, anyway?”

“A Death Eater overheard part of it.”

“... Of course.”

“You have class with Hagrid next, don’t you?” Marco asked, changing the subject.

Harry grinned. He was really excited for that class, and at least for this one he knew Hagrid was good with magical creatures.

“Yeah. You know what he’s planned?”

Marco smiled.

“You’ll like it.” He looked around the rocks. “It looks like the class is walking out of the school. You should meet up with them.” That said, he transformed and flew off in the direction of Hagrid’s hut. Harry guessed there would be an audience for this class.

Harry caught up with his friends when they had almost reached Hagrid’s hut. He grimaced when he noticed the Slytherins were there as well, which meant they would have the class with them. He didn’t pay them much attention, though, because Ron and Hermione were walking a distance away from one another, and doing everything they could not to look in the other’s direction, which meant they were both still annoyed at the argument about the Divination class.

Harry sighed.

Hagrid was very enthusiastic when they arrived, and guided the class to a nearby clearing, announcing he had a special treat for them today. When they arrived to the clearing, however, there was nothing, just a kind of empty paddock they stayed outside of. Harry saw Marco landing, unnoticed by the rest of the students, on a branch from a nearby tree.

“Everyone gather ’round the fence here!” Hagrid called them. “That’s it, make sure yeh can see. Now, firs’ thing yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books—”

Harry grimaced. The book, of course. He had stuffed it in his bag that morning, being as careful as possible and ensuring it was still securely bound, but he hadn’t thought about the fact that they would need to actually _use_ it in class.

“How?” Malfoy asked coldly and, though Harry wanted to punch him for the tone he used, he had to agree with the question.

It turned out the trick to opening the book was to _pet_ it. Harry had been too busy fighting the thing off to even consider there might be any trick at all. Everybody was in his same situation, as there hadn’t been a single unbound book coming out of the school bags. He glared at Marco, because he knew he had known, and Marco shrugged in that bird way of his, as if to say that it was Harry’s problem that he hadn’t thought about it.

Hagrid, who had thought the books would be amusing to the students, looked crestfallen after that —Malfoy’s snide comments weren’t helping— and left to retrieve the magical creatures they would be studying.

He came back bringing a dozen of strange creatures of which the lower part of their bodies were of horses and the upper part of eagles. In his study of the book about magical creatures the summer before first year, Harry remembered seeing them, and could identify them as hippogriffs. He grinned. Marco had been right, he already liked this class, annoying classmates notwithstanding.

Hagrid explained the way to interact with a hippogriff without being maimed in the process —it was all about manners, and Harry knew how to be polite and respectful, even if he rarely chose to actually do it. The students had been apprehensive of approaching the hippogriffs from the start, but when Hagrid asked for a volunteer, they backed away.

Harry took a step forward.

“I’ll do it,” he said, grinning. He wasn’t going to let a chance like this pass.

Someone gasped behind him, and Lavender Brown —a Gryffindor— whispered to him.

 “Oooh, no, Harry, remember your tea leaves!”

Harry scoffed and didn’t bother to answer, as Lavender had been really taken with Trelawney and he didn’t feel like arguing about what he thought of that woman. He jumped the fence with ease.

Following Hagrid’s instructions, Harry approached a hippogriff called Buckbeak and bowed at it while keeping eye contact, trying not to blink too much because Hagrid said that would make Buckbeak mistrustful of him. He had barely bowed when Buckbeak bent his knees and bowed at him. It seemed to surprise Hagrid that the hippogriff had responded so soon, but he recovered quickly and congratulated him on his success.

Once Buckbeak had given his permission, Harry moved closer to pet him, earning applause from most of the class and the bird on the tree.

 “Righ’ then, Harry,” said Hagrid. “I reckon he migh’ let yeh ride him!”

Again, there were gasps from the general direction of the rest of the students —aside from Lavender, it seemed Parvati Patil was also worried about what Trelawney had supposedly read in his tea leaves, and some others were apprehensive as well— but Harry ignored them and followed the instructions.

Aside from on his broomstick, he had also flown in another way before. It had been in his previous life, and not something he had done often, but Marco had, in a couple of occasions, taken him flying. Flying on Buckbeak was amazing, but it brought back to his mind those few times he had flown with Marco, and for a moment he wished that, instead of soft feathers, there was a solid body and tickling, cool flames beneath his hands, that instead of shiny feathers, he could see brilliant blue fire under him.

He looked down and saw Marco with his head turned up to him. He couldn’t tell, at this distance and with Marco’s small bird eyes, but he would bet he wasn’t the only one remembering those occasions.

Once Harry was back on the ground, the rest of the students seemed to lose their wariness and started to approach. Hagrid unleashed the rest of the hippogriffs and they all took turns, some with more luck than others. Neville spent most of the time backing away, because the hippogriff he was trying to approach refused to accept him.

Malfoy, much to Harry’s surprise, had managed to get Buckbeak to bow to him and was now disdainfully patting his beak. Of course, he had to be his usual self and offend the hippogriff.

“This is very easy. I knew it must have been, if Potter could do it... I bet you’re not dangerous at all, are you?” he said to Buckbeak. “Are you, you great ugly brute?”

Of course, Buckbeak attacked him. Malfoy shrieked and Hagrid had to hold Buckbeak back to prevent him from doing any more damage, but by then Malfoy’s arm had already been injured and he was dramatically yelling that he was going to die.

Harry rolled his eyes, completely calm in opposition to the worried and again apprehensive reaction of his classmates, and exchanged an exasperated look with Marco, who hadn’t moved from his branch.

But Hagrid was now panicking and, Malfoy’s stupid theatrics aside, Harry knew this couldn’t be good for him. When Hagrid practically ran out of the paddock carrying the wounded Malfoy —it was just a cut, somewhat deep, in the arm— the students followed at a more sedate pace, most of them shaken by the incident. Harry saw Marco take flight and follow them from up in the sky, though he headed for the windows to enter the castle.

The Slytherins were all complaining about Hagrid now, and claiming that he should be fired for this. The Gryffindors, meanwhile, were mostly defending Hagrid, which Harry felt was a good sign. They separated once inside the castle, which was probably for the best because otherwise there might have been a fight.

Harry, Ron and Hermione went up the stairs, but instead of going to the common room, once they reached the seventh floor they headed for the Room of Requirement that Harry and Marco had showed Ron and Hermione at the end of last year. There they found a cosy sitting room and settled each in one plush armchair.

 “Do you think he’ll be all right?” Hermione asked worriedly.

“Of course he will,” Harry answered, aware that Hermione meant Malfoy, “that wound was nothing, Madam Pomfrey has fixed worse things in about a second. Remember when she had to re-grow my bones last year?” Harry did, and he still cursed Lockhart mentally for it.

 “That was a really bad thing to happen in Hagrid’s first class, though, wasn’t it?” said Ron, worried. “Trust Malfoy to mess things up for him...”

“He did that on purpose, I’m sure of it,” Harry said, and he was. Sure, he didn’t think Malfoy had expected to be injured like that, mostly because Malfoy was a wimp and would never have put himself at risk if he had known he would be wounded, but there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that Malfoy had offended Buckbeak on purpose.

The door opened, and Marco stepped in, closing it again behind himself.

“What took you so long?” Harry asked.

“I went to check on Malfoy.”

“How is he?” Hermione asked, still worried.

“Whining.” The armchair Harry was sitting on had magically extended and transformed into a couch, and Marco plopped down on it. “Poppy fixed his arm in no time, but he is still complaining it hurts.”

“Of course he is,” Ron muttered. “That little...”

“What about Hagrid?” Hermione asked, interrupting whatever Ron had been about to call Malfoy. “He isn’t going to be fired, is he?”

“No. It is only an incident, and one that wasn’t really Hagrid’s fault. Many students can tell whoever asks that Hagrid warned you about not offending the hippogriffs, and that Malfoy provoked him all the same. It’s not all just going to be forgotten, of course. I guess they’ll call the Board of Governors, and Lucius Malfoy will most likely give some trouble. Hagrid won’t be fired, but he is going to feel like shit after this.”

Hermione glared at Marco.

“You shouldn’t speak like that, much less in a school.” It seemed that, now that she knew Hagrid would be mostly alright, she wasn’t as worried as before.

Marco raised his eyebrows.

“I’m a pirate. We speak like that.”

“ _Former_ pirate,” Hermione corrected.

“No.” It had been Harry who spoke. “We’re still the Whitebeard Pirates. And that reminds me,” he stood up and walked a couple of steps away from the seats, the room expanding magically to reveal the usual training space. He turned to look at Ron and Hermione. “Would you two like to train with us sometimes?”

“What?” Ron asked, confused.

Harry sighed.

“After these past two years, it’s clear you two end up following me into trouble more often than not. We’ve been talking this summer,” he looked at Marco, who was now half sprawled on the couch, “and think it would be good that you knew more about fighting than whatever you can learn in school.”

“You mean spells?” Hermione asked, her eyes shining at the prospect of learning new magic.

“That, yes, and some physical training,” Marco answered, earning himself strange looks from the pair.

“Physical training? For what?” Ron sounded honestly confused.

Marco scoffed.

“You wizards are incredible,” he said with an exasperated half smile, shaking his head. “Do you know how many wizards I have seen lose a duel, even die, because they weren’t in a good enough shape to avoid a curse that couldn’t be stopped? Magic is good and all that, but if you rely solely on it, you’re cutting your chances of surviving in a difficult situation.”

Hermione, who had been brought up in a world that valued physical exercise much more than the wizarding world did, understood Marco’s point immediately, but Ron needed a demonstration to accept that perhaps magic wasn’t as all-powerful as he had been brought up to believe. There was nothing like seeing Marco practically blurring around the place —he was moving slower than he was capable of so that Ron and Hermione could _see_ him do it instead of just appearing and disappearing— and snapping metal bars much more resistant than human bones as if they were toothpicks to understand that a wand was useless if you didn’t even have time to raise it before your opponent had killed you.

After some negotiations —Hermione was really busy with her crazy schedule and all the homework it entailed and Ron didn’t want to add too much study to his routine— they agreed that Ron and Hermione would join them on Saturday afternoons.

“Also, Ace,” Marco said once that was settled.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking, and we should add other things to our lessons besides what we are already doing.”

“Like what?” Harry asked, coming back to the couch. He pushed Marco’s legs off so that he could sit. The training area had disappeared, because it was getting late, dinner would start soon, and it was clear they wouldn’t get any training done today.

“Things you never bothered to learn in your previous life,” Marco said with a teasing smile. “You can’t exactly go around beating people up with a pipe if you have to get something from them, and you no longer have the ability to just burn a door or a box down.”

Harry understood immediately what Marco meant. In her seat, Hermione frowned.

“Unless you want your mera mera no mi, of course,” Marco added as an afterthought, also cutting Hermione off before she could speak.

“No,” Harry said without even thinking about it. At Marco’s inquiring look, he elaborated. “Back then, I relied too much on it. When I went after Blackbeard, I lost the fight because my fighting style depended too much on my powers. Maybe, if I hadn’t eaten it, I would have become stronger, maybe even learned how to use haki,” he had known he had it, but had never bothered to learn and it had proven to be a fatal mistake, “and might have won.” It would have changed everything. The conversation was becoming too serious, so he decided to add in a teasing voice, “Besides, someone has to fish you out of the water if you fall in it.”

Marco smiled, understanding and accepting the distraction for what it was.

“You were the one that always had to be fished out of the ocean.” Harry scoffed, but couldn’t argue that point. “So, we add those lessons?” Harry nodded.

“What lessons?” Hermione asked suspiciously. She had been about to try to speak again before when the devil fruit had been mentioned. She still found them very interesting, and Harry suspected that was why she had decided not to interrupt.

Marco grinned at her, and Harry was sure she wouldn’t like the answer.

“For now, lock-picking and pick-pocketing.”

“WHAT?!” she shrieked, indignant.

“You’d be surprised how many wards don’t have in account the muggle way of opening whatever they are protecting,” Marco explained, as if Hermione’s shriek had been because she thought it would be useless and not out of indignation.

She gaped.

“What’s lock-p— those things?” Ron, who wasn’t following the conversation anymore, asked.

Harry grinned and started to explain, Hermione still trying to come up with anything to say.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Hey, Marco!” Ace grinned at him, offering him a bottle of good quality rum he had acquired in the last island the crew had visited._

_Marco accepted it, and opened it before he said anything._

_“No.”_

_“No, what?” Ace asked, putting on his best innocent expression, which wasn’t very innocent because he was a disastrous actor._

_“I’m not taking you flying,” Marco said, and took a swig from the bottle. “I don’t like people riding on my back.”_

_Ace raised his eyebrows, but a short and fierce glare convinced him to keep to himself the first comment that had crossed his mind._

_“Oh, come on,” he insisted, “it’ll just be a moment, a quick lap around the ship, nothing else.”_

_Marco drank again and looked at him from the corner of his eye. Then he lowered the bottle and looked at it pensively._

_“You’re really insistent.” Ace had been pestering Marco about this for over two months already, the idea having crossed his mind for the first time when he had seen Marco fly one night during watch duty._

_“Yeah. I want to fly,” he said. He had heard —Sabo had read it somewhere and told him once— that flying was supposed to be one of the experiences that made people feel the most free in the world._

_Marco tilted his head in a gesture that was somewhat reminiscent of a bird and looked at him with consideration._

_“Maybe...” Ace grinned. “But it’ll cost you more than this,” Marco said, raising the bottle and taking another swig from it._

_Ace nodded delightedly._

_“What do you want?”_

_Marco grinned and raised his eyebrows suggestively. Ace felt his face heat up, but nodded. This was still new to him, he had to get used to the insinuations. Marco raised his free hand and ruffled his hair, then he leaned in and kissed the corner of Ace’s mouth._

_“We’ll do it when the weather is better.”_

_Ace nodded, because it was snowing today and he guessed the sights would be more amazing on a bright and clear day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have three pieces of art for this chapter :)
> 
> First, from Red Pirana, there's these two scenes:
> 
> And the first scene of the chapter seems to be very popular, because here's FoxMii's drawing of it :D


	20. Boggarts

Marco landed in a small back alley behind a restaurant that was closed at this hour. He transformed, checked that his clothes were alright —he was wearing a nondescript muggle suit; he preferred muggle clothes because they were far more comfortable and allowed for much better movements, not to mention he had worn them as a pirate— and walked out into the busier street. He headed for a shabby shop most people passed by without even noticing, and entered, the bell above the door chiming when the door opened and closed. Marco nodded to the bored-looking man behind the counter and headed for the line of letterboxes at the far wall.

This was one of London’s many wizarding post offices, one of the less busy ones, away from Diagon Alley or any other important wizarding business. Stopping before his box, marked with the initials M. N., Marco raised his right hand and placed it against its lock-less door. The metal shimmered and disappeared, and Marco took the small amount of post in one hand. These boxes didn’t require a wand: when you rented one, the shopkeeper keyed you into the letterbox, and you were the only person who could open it. The spell also redirected all the mail addressed to you —or part of it, if you wanted to key only some senders into this address— to the box.

As happened with many wizard-only shops around the world, this place was protected with muggle-repelling charms, so no muggle would even pay attention to its presence, much less remember it, but those didn’t work on Marco. It had been an interesting discovery when these charms had been invented back during the time of the witch hunts. They didn’t work on Marco even though he wasn’t a wizard, and Marco supposed it meant they didn’t recognize him as a muggle either. The same happened with Hogwarts and every other wizarding place he had ever been to, none of the magic that worked to keep muggles away affected him, and he had been able to see the school from the start, not the dangerous looking ruins any muggle who managed to get close enough to the castle would see.

Closing the letterbox again, he nodded to the wizard once more in his way out and headed for a nearby coffee shop where he usually sat to read his post. Contrary to many people in this country, he wasn’t much of a tea person. Doing things this way, if there was something that needed an answer, he only had to walk a couple blocks back to the post office and rent an owl. He sometimes had used a school owl, nobody kept track of who used them as long as they came back alright, but there were some things he would rather not use a school owl for, in case it was tracked back there.

He reached the coffee shop, greeted the woman at the bar —he came here often enough that she recognized him— asked for an espresso and sat at his usual corner table. He put his mail on the table and began to sift through it as soon as he had his coffee. There was a catalogue from a wizarding clothes shop —not Madam Malkin’s, it was one of the businesses outside of Diagon Alley, in the middle of a mostly muggle area— and another from Flourish and Blotts —he would take a more careful look at it once he was done with the rest of the mail, to see if there was any book of interest. As the students were now back in school, he didn’t have as much mail as he had received during the summer, but there was a letter in thick parchment, sealed with a simple black wax seal. Breaking the seal, he pulled out the letter inside the envelope and read it over.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

Borgin had found a possible seller for the book Marco had asked him to find. Of course, the initial price was outrageous. Marco didn’t really mind the money, he could pay that amount easily, but he knew that Borgin would be suspicious if Marco just paid the price, because it was a very dark book —enough to have made Borgin sweat nervously when Marco had mentioned it— and a suspicious shopkeeper would mean rumours, especially in Knockturn Alley. Given that Marco didn’t know how things would develop in the future, he preferred not to attract too much attention to himself, and even less to the reason he was looking for that particular book. He _was_ going to get that book, but it would be best to make it look like he wasn’t desperate to have it in his hands, which he kind of was. He needed answers.

Marco pulled a bit of expensive parchment and an equally expensive envelope out of one of the pockets of his suit jacket —he had to maintain his cover of extremely rich wizard, he had even procured a seal, though it was as plain as the one in the letter he had received— and using a pen, an ironical smirk in his lips, he wrote his response, adding in a counteroffer to the price.

Before going back to Hogwarts, he dropped by the post office, rented an owl and sent his letter.

 

* * *

 

 

Malfoy didn’t appear in class again until halfway through Thursday’s Potions lesson, which, one more year, the Gryffindors shared with the Slytherins. He had his —perfectly healed— arm bound up in a sling, whined, and managed to get Snape to order Ron and Harry to prepare his ingredients, claiming he couldn’t do it in his state.

Harry wanted to punch him, he _really_ did, but Hermione sent a very meaningful look his way from the table she shared with Neville. Harry feared he might be bullied into studying as much as back in first year, or maybe scolded until he turned deaf, if he went through with his impulse. He would get Malfoy, though, no doubt about that.

Harry came very close to ignoring his own resolution to leave Malfoy be for now when Malfoy started to talk about Hagrid, and how his annoying daddy was pressuring to have him fired. When Malfoy admitted that, yes, he was putting on the show of being injured to get Hagrid fired, Harry moved to stand up from his seat, and barely managed to stifle a yelp when something stung him in the back. He turned his head to see Hermione putting her wand away, a fierce glare in her eyes.

“Behave,” she mouthed at him. Harry nodded reluctantly, lest she decide to hex him again. He glared at Malfoy and decided to ignore him.

Then Harry was distracted by Snape, who was examining Neville’s disastrous potion. It was orange, when it was supposed to be green. Harry’s anger spread to Snape when the professor proclaimed they would test the potion on Neville’s pet toad, Trevor —whom Neville carried everywhere for fear of losing it, contrary to other students like Ron, who always left Scabbers in the dorm.

As soon as Snape turned his back on Neville, Hermione, who had been forbidden to help him fix the potion, began to whisper instructions to him. Harry guessed that was the best chance Neville’s potion had.

Seamus Finnigan told Harry then that Sirius Black had been spotted not far from here —Harry made a mental note to pay more attention to the sightings of Black, to be prepared if the chance of killing him presented itself— and after that Malfoy changed his strategy to try to irritate them. He tried to goad them with information about Black, no doubt believing Harry didn’t know everything there was to know about him and his role in his parents’ death. Malfoy seemed quite put out when both Harry and Ron ignored him. That, at least, helped Harry reign in his impulse to beat him up.

Luckily, by the end of the class, Hermione had been able to salvage Neville’s potion, and Trevor the toad survived the experience. Snape caught on, of course, because there was no way Neville would have been able to do that on his own, and took five points from Gryffindor, which soured the mood considerably.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry liked Professor Lupin. He reached that conclusion early in the first class. Lupin had told the students they would go somewhere else for a practical lesson —they hadn’t had any of those in Defence, what with the pathetic excuses for professors they had had up until that point— and in the way they had encountered Peeves. Lupin had taught them a spell that sent the poltergeist away, and Harry thought that was great.

Once they reached their destination, though, Harry wasn’t so sure he would like this lesson. They were going to face a boggart in the staff room, and, according to Hermione’s answer, a boggart turned into whatever a person feared most. Harry didn’t like that notion. When Lupin told them to think what they believed their worst fear to be, and to come up with a way to turn it into something humorous —that was how the spell to fight a boggart worked, by turning the fear into something amusing— Harry didn’t like the thoughts that crossed his mind. The first of them was an image of Luffy dead, but he soon realized that wasn’t a fear, just something he really didn’t want to see —Luffy, as much as it hurt to remember, was long since dead, and the only reason Harry was at peace with that thought was because he knew his little brother had been happy and had fulfilled his dream. The same happened with Sabo and Pops. Then it was Marco who he saw dead in his mind, and he shuddered at the thought. _That_ was something he _did_ fear, losing Marco, but it was the shudder that reminded him of something else. The dementor, and the memories and feelings it had brought with it. Harry had never been so paralyzed, so vulnerable, in either of his lives, not even after his fight with Blackbeard, and he didn’t want to experience that _ever_ again. He had not only remembered his death, he had been so overcome by despair that he had felt like nothing would be alright ever again, and it hadn’t been until he saw Marco in the hallway before Professor McGonagall’s office that he had started to feel like a human being again.

Lupin asked if they were ready before he could think of any way to turn a dementor into something amusing, and everybody answered that they were.

A terrified Neville went first, and Harry burst out laughing with the rest of the class when his boggart —that just happened to be Snape— was forced into Neville’s grandmother’s clothes, a horrible hat with a stuffed vulture, a long green dress and a huge red handbag. From there, people started to take turns: there were mummies, eyes, a banshee, Ron’s boggart was a giant spider...

Then the boggart ended up at Harry’s feet, but before it had time to transform, Lupin stepped between them and it turned into a white ball instead of a dementor. Harry frowned, annoyed, and didn’t pay attention when they finally got rid of the boggart. Did Lupin think he couldn’t handle it?

Harry wasn’t the only one who hadn’t faced the boggart, Hermione hadn’t, either, but Lupin had purposely prevented him from doing it. The class may be composed only of Gryffindors, but Harry was sure this would spread. Or maybe not, he realized, because the story of boggart-Snape was so juicy that his classmates might not even have noticed what Lupin had done.

Just in case, he didn’t mention it.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco flew into the kitchens’ pantry and grabbed one of the bottles of firewhiskey that were kept in there just in case but rarely used. He left before any of the house elves could return and spot him, and flew through empty hallways, which meant a longer trip than necessary to avoid students, until he reached the closed door to Severus’ office. He landed on the floor and put the bottle to one side, then rapped on the door with a wing. The door was pulled open with unnecessary force, which didn’t surprise Marco in the slightest, and Severus looked around the hallway with an impressive glower before his eyes descended to Marco, still on the ground.

Severus bent down, picked the bottle of firewhiskey and straightened up. He turned around and stalked back into the office, not closing the door. Marco took that as an invitation to enter. He flew up again and, once inside, kicked the door shut. He had made the mistake of using excessive strength in Severus’s presence years ago, which had earned him a raised eyebrow and had Severus —still a student by then— investigating phoenixes for a whole month in search of an explanation that wasn’t there. Now Severus just accepted Marco’s strength as one of the many oddities that differentiated him from other phoenixes.

He hadn’t even reached his chair and Severus had already opened the bottle and taken a long drink from it that would have given many wizards a coughing fit.

“That blasted Lupin...” Severus muttered, and Marco agreed to an extent.

Marco was reasonably sure Lupin hadn’t planned that class with the express purpose of humiliating Severus —opposite to James Potter and Sirius Black, Remus Lupin had never gone out of his way to target Severus back when they were students, he had simply turned a blind eye whenever his friends did it— but if Neville Longbottom’s greatest fear was Severus, then Lupin had had to work with it. Marco would say Severus kind of deserved it after how much he terrorized the poor boy, but the experience had brought back far too many memories that were best left buried, and there was all the laughter in the hallways and the jokes in the staff room. The other professors frowned at Severus for not seeing the humour in the whole situation, and Marco felt the impulse to kick them because they had all taught Severus and should remember how things had been between him and the Marauders, and thus realize that this was much more than just an ‘accidental occurrence’ to him. Then again, the professors had always turned a blind eye to most of what the Marauders did, too.

Maybe Marco should do something about it. If they thought Severus should find the humour in a little humiliation, they would surely apply the same rule to themselves.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco grabbed Ace by the ankle easily — _too_ easily— and flipped him over, sending him sprawling on the mats that covered the floor in the training room. He sighed and crossed his arms.

“Alright, what is it?”

“What is what?” Ace asked, sitting up. He didn’t move all the way to stand or attack again, which in him wasn’t normal during a training session.

“Whatever’s stuck in your head. You’re distracted.”

Surprisingly, Ace didn’t deny it. He scowled and crossed his arms, still sitting on the mats. Marco walked closer and sat before him.

“Did anything happen?” He hadn’t heard any rumours about Ace, only the incident with the boggart-Severus. Ace should be laughing his ass off at it —his animosity for Severus was no secret and very much reciprocated— but there hadn’t been a single joke or crack about it.

Ace bit the inside of his left cheek, and stared resolutely at his feet.

“I’m not weak,” he said finally.

“Of course not,” Marco agreed, not understanding where this came from. Ace was anything but weak, and he should know. Marco knew he knew, and it made no sense he felt the need of restate it, much less be so visibly upset over it.

“Then why does Lupin think I am weak?” Ace finally looked up at Marco. He was annoyed, and the frown in his face reminded Marco of how, back when Ace had been trying to kill Pops so long ago, he had looked at anyone who made the smallest attempt to befriend him.

“Why do you think he does?” Marco asked, because he didn’t see any reason why Lupin would think the son of one of his best friends —much less James Potter’s son— would be weak, much less when he didn’t even know Ace.

“Today, we had to face a boggart.” Marco nodded, because _that_ he knew. “And we went in turns. When the boggart rolled close to me, before it could transform, Lupin stepped before it. As if I couldn’t face it.” Ace snorted in annoyance.

Marco did, too, but his snort was out of amusement, and that earned him a glare. Before Ace could do more, Marco raised his hands in a sign for peace.

“I’m not laughing at you. Just... think about it. Imagine you’re someone else and don’t know, well, _you_ , only the stories running around. What would you expect your boggart to be?”

Ace frowned, and Marco saw the exact moment realization dawned in his mind.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Voldemort? Really?” He scoffed.

“It makes sense, if you think about it. A normal thirteen year old would be terrified of the madman who killed his parents and has tried to kill him three times already.”

Ace glared at him, probably for the ‘normal’ comment, and shook his head.

“I can think of loads of things scarier than that guy.”

“Like what?” Marco asked. He was honestly curious to hear what Ace thought his boggart would be. Given his life — _both_ his lives— there were a lot of candidates, each more unpleasant than the previous one.

“I think... It’d be a dementor,” Ace admitted, frowning again.

“A dementor?”

That was an interesting choice. Not that Marco couldn’t relate, he didn’t want to be _anywhere_ near a dementor, but that wasn’t the first thing he would have thought of as Ace’s possible boggart. It didn’t make it to the top ten of the list, really.

“Yeah. I thought about it, when Lupin told us to think about our worst fear. The first thing that came to mind was Luffy, dead. But that made no sense.” Ace shook his head, as if to steel himself. That Luffy —and everyone else— was dead was a concept it had taken him some time to wrap his mind around. “He’s already dead, and that means it’s not a fear. You fear things that you think might happen, even if it’s something irrational. Same goes for everybody else. There’s you, of course, seeing you dead could be it, I really don’t want you to die.” Ace gave him such an earnest look right then that something in Marco’s chest clenched.

“I have no intention of dying anytime soon,” he reassured, and Ace smiled. “So, the dementor?”

“It came out of nowhere, sort of. It’s not because of the memories, that was horrible, but... the feeling I had when it was there, it was like nothing I have ever experienced. Worse than when I thought, as a kid the first time around, that I should not have been born, or when I believed Sabo had died that day.” A sad glint, the same one that appeared every time Sabo’s name came up, shone in Ace’s eyes. Marco scooted over and wrapped an arm around Ace’s shoulders. Ace leaned into him, bringing his knees up to his chest, and he continued. “It was worse than how I felt that day before you convinced me to join the crew, or when Blackbeard caught me. It was even worse than my execution, when I saw you all fighting to get to me and I could do _nothing_ to stop it. It felt like...”

Ace didn’t say _what_ it had felt like, but Marco didn’t need him to. He brought him closer and rested his chin on Ace’s head, letting him pretend he wasn’t pressing against Marco in search of comfort at the memory.

“That makes sense,” he said at last, and felt Ace nod.

After a while, Ace pulled back and moved to a more relaxed sitting position next to him.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I told you what I think my boggart is. Have you ever thought what yours would be?”

Marco thought about it. He didn’t really need to think, he knew the answer as soon as Ace brought it up, but still took his time.

“It’s changed over the years,” he said finally.

“Changed?” Ace asked, turning on his side to look at him. “You’ve encountered boggarts before?”

“I’ve encountered almost anything you can name before,” Marco told him with a small grin.

In another life, Ace would have made a joke about his age, but it was a topic he hadn’t mentioned once in the past few years. Marco knew, there was no room for doubt, that it was because, if Ace stopped to think about Marco’s age now, he would feel guilty that he had even _needed_ to reach it in the first place. Marco had never thought he would miss the jibes about his age.

“At one point, it was nothing,” he continued before the silence could become uncomfortable.

“Nothing? You mean you didn’t fear anything?” Ace asked with a raised eyebrow, somewhere between sceptical and awed.

Marco shook his head.

“No, I mean it was literally _nothing_. Just... There was this time,” that had lasted far longer than he was willing to admit out loud, “when I thought you weren’t coming back, and I also thought it was too late for me, that I would give up and decide to die but there wouldn’t be anything waiting because... I had wasted my chance or something. That there was no afterlife for me.”

Those had been dark times. When he had realized how close he was to actually giving up, Marco had thrown himself into tracking powerful magical beings. If he had a purpose of sorts, if he believed he was being useful, then he had a reason to stay other than waiting for Ace. He had never outgrown the Whitebeard Pirates’ habit of protecting territories they liked, and doing that had helped him stay sane in more than one occasion.

A hand on his shoulder drew him out of his musings.

“What about now?” Ace asked. “You know you’re stuck with me, so what’s your boggart now?”

Marco shrugged, which did nothing to shake the hand from his shoulder. He didn’t want it to go, not really.

“I haven’t seen a boggart in years. But it would be you, I have no doubt about it.” He didn’t need to elaborate it would be Ace, dead again. Marco didn’t think he could go through that a second time.

Ace nodded in understanding.

“Well, I have no intention of dying anytime soon, either, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Marco smiled.

“That’s good to hear.”

Ace moved to stand up and stretched his arms over his head.

“I don’t feel like training anymore.”

As he said it, the Room of Requirement transformed into a comfortable sitting room that resembled the Gryffindor common room. Marco stood up, too, and moved to sit on a plush armchair.

“What do you want to do?”

“Honestly?” Ace plopped down on a loveseat, feet dangling off one of the armrests. “After this conversation I think I want to get drunk.”

Marco scoffed and leaned back, lifting his feet to place them on a small table that materialized for that exact purpose.

“Well, bad luck, you’re not getting anywhere near alcohol for a couple of years at least.”

“Oh, come on,” Ace complained, “you’re a pirate, you’re not supposed to care about me breaking some stupid laws.”

“I’m still not letting you anywhere near booze. I have some morals, you know.”

Ace raised his head from the seat’s cushion and aimed an intense look with raised eyebrows at him. Marco wasn’t sure he would like whatever comment was about to come out of Ace’s mouth.

“Morals, huh? I wonder _when_ they’ll stop working. I bet it’s much sooner than any adult would like.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Marco frowned. He didn’t need him to be any clearer to understand _exactly_ what Ace was getting at.

“The age of consent in the United Kingdom in sixteen, and the same applies to the wizarding world.”

“Sixteen?!” Ace yelled, sitting up suddenly. “Oh, come on!”

Now it was Marco’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“Your hormones have started altering already?”

“Well, no...” Ace admitted, “but they started much sooner than sixteen last time.”

Marco smirked.

“Then you’ll have to become reacquainted with your hand.”

Ace groaned and dropped back down on the loveseat. What Marco didn’t say was that, if Ace developed at the same pace as he had done in his previous life, _he_ would have some serious meetings with his hand as well. At seventeen, Ace had been really hot back in his other life, and Marco wondered when that had started.

He hadn’t really thought much about sex lately, distracted by the fact that Ace was _here_ , but now he realized he might have a problem in a couple of years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... art for the chapter by RedPirana :D


	21. The things we forgot

Ron groaned under the spray of hot water from one of the showers in the locker room of the set of rooms —Harry had called them a ‘gym’— that the Room of Requirement had provided for training. He rubbed at his sore legs, sure that he had sprained something. He had expected to get a little tired, of course, but this had been way too much.

Today had been his and Hermione’s first day of training with Harry and Marco, and they had spent it starting on the basics and working a schedule for what they would do. Or, more accurately, Marco had _said_ they would work on the basics, but there was _no way_ that what they had done could be called ‘basic’. They had been at it barely an hour, and by the time they were done Ron and Hermione were barely able to drag themselves to the showers. Ron had fallen on his ass so much he doubted he would be able to feel anything for a week.

They would spend the rest of the afternoon practicing some spells, which Ron thought was much more useful.

What he didn’t see the point of were those… workout routines Marco had given them for morning and night. It was true that they were only fifteen minutes and nothing in comparison to what they had just gone through, but Harry had said it would take some time for it to show results, and that was what Ron didn’t understand. The muggle ways of doing things were always so slow… He was sure there must be potions to get in shape quick, but when he had mentioned them Marco had shaken his head and muttered something about lazy idiots, addiction and after-effects. Hermione had nodded along with him, saying something about ‘drugs’ —another muggle term, Ron guessed, and he was starting to get tired of not understanding half of what was being said around him— and Harry, noticing Ron’s dubiousness about the whole thing, had said they would do the workouts together.

That was when Ron remembered that Harry had always been awake before him since last year, and that he did something in the morning and nights that Ron had never paid much attention to.

He hoped they were right about this helping him duel in the future. Marco was strong, Ron could admit that much easily, and both he and Harry —even Hermione— were convinced this was useful. Ron would still be much more amenable to the whole thing if he at least was allowed to take some potions for the cramps, but when he had asked for one Marco had just smirked and told him to stop being such a crybaby.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday arrived, and with it so did a strange occurrence.

When Harry and Ron descended into the Gryffindor common room, they found a group of students talking. It seemed a girl hadn’t been able to find her cat and had asked around, which had resulted in more students realizing their cats weren’t anywhere to be found either.

“I haven’t seen Crookshanks,” Hermione told Ron and Hermione when she saw them walk down the stairs.

“Good riddance,” muttered Ron, and yelped when Harry kicked him.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there is a reason for this,” Harry reassured Hermione, who by now was glaring angrily at Ron, and threw an arm over her shoulders and led her out through the portrait hole before she could start another argument with Ron over their pets.

As it turned out, they had their answer to the mystery of the cats’ absence as soon as they reached the Great Hall. What looked like every single cat in the school was there. They were around the staff table, or, more accurately, Professor McGonagall. All of the cats were trying to get to her, and the ones who managed it rubbed themselves happily against her clothes before being pushed away by another cat who did just the same.

The staff had moved away from her, their table magically lengthened so they could all sit without being swarmed by cats, and they looked visibly amused —even Snape had what seemed like the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips. The students didn’t seem to be doing any better, everyone present glancing at McGonagall and laughing more or less discreetly: many people tried to conceal it behind their hands or cover it with coughs, but some, mostly in the Slytherin table, were laughing openly.

McGonagall herself didn’t look amused at all. Her lips were pulled so thin they were white, and she had her wand out, trying to mutter spells to shoo the cats away without success. She would probably have managed it if she had used a strong spell, but Harry —in between his own bout of laughter at the scene— could guess she didn’t want to hurt the cats.

Harry sat down next to Fred Weasley, who was busy admiring the spectacle with George and speculating about how it had been done. Harry had no idea, but he knew he had spotted the culprit the moment he saw Marco perched on Dumbledore’s seat, obviously laughing in his bird way. He pointed him out at Ron —who hadn’t started eating yet because he would probably choke— and Hermione —who couldn’t manage to look disapproving because she was trying too hard not to laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

They met Marco in a deserted corridor during their unexpectedly free third period that day. They were supposed to have Transfiguration at that hour, but the rumour mill had it that McGonagall still hadn’t managed to get rid of the cats, and after snapping at her students early during the second period class she had decided to take the rest of the day off to try to solve the problem.

“Why did you do that?” Hermione asked even before Marco had finished his transformation. She had composed herself enough to sound disapproving in the hours that had passed.

Marco smiled, amused.

“Do I need a reason?” he asked, amused. Harry knew that yes, he needed a reason, as Marco had never been one to prank someone without motive, but he didn’t point it out. He had a feeling Marco wouldn’t tell, or he would have done it already.

Hermione’s disapproving frown, that didn’t seem to have any effect on Marco, deepened.

“What did you do to the cats?”

“Nothing.” At Hermione’s incredulous look, he elaborated. “I didn’t do anything _to them_. They’re fine, and won’t experience any ill effects for this. They like Minerva a lot right now, but that’s all.” He smirked, and Hermione crossed her arms.

“Whatever you did, undo it,” Hermione demanded.

“No.”

Harry placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder before she could say anything else.

“Don’t bother, you can’t out-stubborn him.” Hermione’s glare was directed at him now. “Seriously, not even _I_ can do it most of the time.”

“But it’s not _fair_ ,” Hermione complained. “You saw Professor McGonagall’s face. This is more than a prank, it’s humiliating!” She turned back to Marco, as if those words should be enough to convince him to undo whatever he had done.

He just shrugged.

“Trust me on this, she had it coming.”

“Why?” Ron, who had stayed silent so far —he was having too much fun to really want the prank undone, but was smart enough not to say it where Hermione could hear him— asked.

“She just did,” Marco said, and right then Harry knew they wouldn’t get him to elaborate any more. “And look at it this way: you got a free period.”

Those words incensed Hermione all over again.

“And there’s that! You’re messing with our education!”

“It’s just a class, you’ll be fine,” Marco waved her off, and Hermione huffed.

Puffing out indignantly, she turned around and marched off. Harry was unsure whether she had decided she wouldn’t get Marco to change his mind, was just too exasperated and knew hexing him was useless, or was going to the library to try to recover her lost class.

“Seriously, _how_ did you do it?” Ron asked, admiration clear in his voice now that Hermione was out of sight and earshot.

Marco gave them a speculative look before answering.

“If I tell you, I want to make it very clear that if I even _suspect_ either of you gave it away, you will regret it. Am I clear?” he said with the voice Harry identified as the first division commander giving orders.

They both nodded, and Harry could hear Ron gulping. He didn’t blame him.

“I used bleach.”

“Bleach?” they both asked at the same time, looking at one another in puzzlement.

“Yes. The magical, instant-drying kind that doesn’t alter the colour of the clothes. Cats love it, as you’ve seen.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ron started dubiously. “That’d explain that a cat seeing McGonagall would go to her, but why were _all_ the cats there?”

Marco smirked.

“I took them there, of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, as Dumbledore’s trusted phoenix, Marco was keyed into every single ward of the school, and could enter everywhere —be it a common room or a professor’s rooms— without a password or someone letting him in, and he had used this to his advantage. It soon became clear that he had passed _all_ of McGonagall’s clothes through the bleach, but things calmed a little when people started to get over the initial amusement and went to retrieve their cats. From them on, even though there was no army of cats following her around, whenever Harry saw McGonagall there were always a couple of cats walking at her feet, and they became a more or less permanent fixture for the next few weeks. There were days without cats, when Harry guessed McGonagall was wearing a set of clothes that Harry guessed had been cleaned again after the bleach, and it was hilarious to see her subtle relief only for exasperation to return when the next day the cats were back without an apparent explanation.

Also, McGonagall wasn’t the only professor Marco had deemed deserved a prank or two. In the first astronomy class, they discovered that all the telescopes had been recalibrated, which became a common occurrence for every Astronomy lesson for every year during weeks, more or less the same amount of time in which the pile of books Professor Flitwick used to stand on top of and see over his desk wouldn’t stay in place. Flitwick spent a week falling a couple of times each class before deciding to move to stand on his desk, only for the desk to turn so slippery not even a sheet of parchment could remain on it.

Not all the professors were targeted, but Harry heard rumours about other occurrences. One of them said that one of the greenhouses not used for classes had had to be closed temporarily because the plants there had decided that eating one another would be fun and Professor Sprout couldn’t get them to stop, but Harry wasn’t sure how much of that was true and how much had been exaggerated. What he did know for a fact was that the first years’ flying lessons had to be postponed for two weeks because all the school brooms had mysteriously disappeared, only to be found one at a time spread through different places of the school. The first years had complained loudly about it, and Filch had been even grumpier than usual because he had been forced to scout the entire school to find the missing brooms.

Marco also showed up almost daily with large bags of sweets. They were Dumbledore’s, it seemed, because, as there was no way of humiliating a man who thought lime green tunics with moving purple stars were decent clothes, Marco had decided to annoy him by stealing his sweets every time a new shipment arrived to replace the latest missing one. Harry, of course, was more than happy to help dispose of them.

Hermione was extremely angry at Marco for all of this. Harry was sure he would have left the afternoon lessons if it wasn’t because they were _lessons_ , but she spent the whole time in the Room of Requirement glaring at him, and she never failed to demand that Marco stopped with what he was doing. Marco had told Harry he would stop once McGonagall spent a week with no cats following her around, but he didn’t mention that detail to Hermione, and neither did Harry.

It didn’t help out Hermione’s mood that they had started with Harry’s extra lessons, even less when they decided to do one of them on a Saturday afternoon. They were working on lock-picking now, and it was harder than Harry had imagined. Smashing and burning things had been much easier than carefully trying to pry the lock open. It was hard enough to manage it with a picklock, and he really didn’t want to think about when he mastered it and they moved on to other less accurate tools.

The only thing Harry disapproved of about Marco’s pranks was that, for some reason, they didn’t extend to Trelawney. Her constant predictions of his death, her pitying looks and soft words, as if he was going to die at any time, and how some students —also known as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil— copied her behaviour around him grated on Harry’s nerves. She managed to turn everything that appeared in his tea leaves into an omen of his imminent death, even the one time the leaves simply said he had forgotten something, the professor had twisted it to mean that there was something he still hadn’t solved before his death, and Harry had spent the remainder of the day fending off questions and repeating that he didn’t have to get his affairs in order because _he wasn’t going to die_.

Half the class was still convinced he would die, though, and the story had already spread through the school, earning him pitying looks from those who believed Trelawney and amused ones from those who didn’t. There were jokes, too, of course. There were always jokes and mocking comments about anything that happened to him, courtesy of Malfoy and his cronies.

 

* * *

 

 

The first of October brought with it the start of the season’s Quidditch practices. This year Oliver Wood was even more desperate than ever to win, because this was his last year in school and they still hadn’t managed to win the cup even though they _should_ have won the previous two years. Harry didn’t like to lose, and he considered Oliver, despite last year’s horrible schedule for practices, a good friend. He decided he would do everything he could to win this year, just as everybody else in the team did. Even Fred and George had been serious about it when they saw how desperate Oliver was to win the cup.

Quidditch practices would be three days a week, on the afternoons of Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, which meant Harry had to reschedule some of his training sessions with Marco.

 

* * *

 

 

_Portgas D. Ace, despite what many might think due to his random bouts of sleep, was an early riser. He had never slept in as a kid, an habit that had carried to his days as pirate captain and that had only solidified further during his months of failed attempts on Whitebeard’s life, when he would barely sleep three or four hours at most due to his paranoia about what the crew might do if they caught him asleep. Waking up early had many advantages, amongst which was the fact that this way he had more time to eat as much as he wanted during breakfast._

_Today, he woke up even earlier than usual, dressed and left the cabin and a sleeping Marco behind. He didn’t have to bother to be silent, because it was already a routine of theirs that Ace woke up first, and Marco didn’t even twitch unless Ace made an effort to wake him up. Marco wasn’t a late riser, but he didn’t see the point of being at the mess hall the moment the food came out, because he didn’t have, as he put it, a bottomless pit for a stomach._

_Ace had different plans for this morning, though. As they had agreed, Thatch was waiting for him at a table with two giant baskets by his side. Ace grinned at seeing them. It might not be as much food as he would eat if he stayed here, but it would do._

_“Remember, you only have until before lunch. After that, we want him too,” Thatch told him so solemnly that he made it sound like they were talking about something very serious._

_Ace grinned._

_“I know, I know. I’m sure he won’t want to miss his party,” he said, taking the two baskets in his hands. Their weights suggested they had been filled to full capacity._

_“Of course he won’t. We’ve got something special this year,” Thatch said with a grin and a glint in his eyes that Ace had learned to recognize in the few months he had been an official member of the crew._

_Ace shook his head in amusement._

_“Whatever it is, it’s your funeral, not mine.” Which didn’t mean Ace wasn’t curious to see what brilliant idea Thatch had come up with this time._

_When Ace returned to the cabin, he found Marco was still asleep, hugging the pillow now that he was alone. Another thing people wouldn’t guess, Ace had soon discovered, was that Marco was a cuddler. He had a too terrifying reputation for anybody to ever entertain the idea. Ace found it cute, if he was honest, and thanks to his powers he never heated up too much from it even during the summer weather._

_He bent down to place the baskets against the wall and closed the door carefully not to make any unnecessary noises. He undressed as he walked back to the bed, barely resisting the urge to hum. His eyes zeroed in on Marco’s naked midsection._

_Time to wake up the sleeping beauty._

 

* * *

 

 

With everything that had happened the previous year, Harry had eventually forgotten that he had asked Marco to show him where the school’s kitchens were, and now he had to solve this lack of knowledge. He cornered Fred and George at the Gryffindor lockers after Monday’s practice, having muttered to them to stay behind once the practice was over.

“Where are the kitchens?” he asked as soon as the three of them were alone.

Fred and George looked at one another.

“What makes you think...” Fred started.

“...That we know?” finished George.

Harry didn’t even bother to snort.

“ _Everybody_ knows you do. That’s where you get the food for the parties.”

“Yes, well...” George started, looking at Fred.

“We can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, crossing his arms. They better not come up with some stupid excuse about keeping it a secret or he was going to curse them.

“Because, dear Harry,” Fred started solemnly, “we cannot risk it.”

“You would leave the school out of food in a week,” George added, nodding sagely.

Harry glared at them. Their reasoning may be amusing, but he was in serious need of the kitchens. And he needed them now.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll curse you,” he threatened.

“We’re fifth years,” George pointed out.

“I killed a basilisk last year.” That wasn’t true, but they didn’t know, and he could have killed that basilisk of Marco hadn’t wanted it for himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Dobby, Harry decided after his visit to the kitchens, was probably an oddity amongst house elves. The elves that worked in the school, and there were lots of them, had been more than pleased to assist Harry, and had offered even more than he had asked for, which Harry had of course accepted. There had been only one demand that they had been unable to satisfy due to the school’s rules, and the poor guys had looked so depressed —even ready to start bashing their heads against the walls— that Harry had reassured them it was of no importance, though it kind of was, and had distracted them by asking about sweets.

Now it was Tuesday, and because of his long visit to the kitchens last night he hadn’t slept much. Both Hermione and Ron noticed, but he reassured them he was fine. That turned the worry, at least on Hermione’s part, into suspicion, probably because Harry hadn’t given them any explanation about why he hadn’t slept.

Deciding that it wasn’t worth the suspicious looks and that he didn’t want to distract Hermione when for once there was no reason for her to worry, he slowed his pace down when they were returning to the castle after Care of Magical Creatures —which had become extremely boring after Malfoy’s not-accident, and they now spent the classes taking care of flobberworms, the most boring creatures to ever inhabit the earth— and waited until he was sure they were too far from the group for anybody to overhear before speaking.

“Alright, guys, I was gonna tell you later after Potions, but Hermione’s going to kill me with her glares if I wait that long.” He ignored her new glare at this comment. “I’m not planning anything bad, honestly. It’s just... today is Marco’s birthday.”

That made both Ron and Hermione stop. Harry did, too.

“Really?” Ron asked.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner? I don’t have anything for him!” Hermione scolded him.

Harry half-smiled at that.

“I thought you were angry at him.”

Hermione blushed slightly.

“Yes, I am, there still are cats following Professor McGonagall sometimes, but... he’s my friend.”

Harry grinned at hearing that, and he barely held back from spontaneously hugging Hermione. She probably had no idea how good it felt to hear that she thought of Marco as a friend, but Harry, who had known him as the exasperated-yet-caring older brother of the Whitebeard Pirates, knew how lonely he must feel now that he didn’t have much people to interact with, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine how alone Marco must have felt for all these years. Knowing that someone cared was great.

“That’s good to know,” he said instead. “I didn’t tell you because I just remembered it two nights ago, when I had a dream.” The content of which they didn’t need to know but that had proven Harry’s hormones were already more active than he had believed. “I’ve been busy preparing everything. I even got Fred and George to tell me where the kitchens are.”

“A party?” Ron asked, grinning at the prospect. Aside from the banquets a couple of days during the year, there weren’t really parties at Hogwarts. Even during birthdays, students didn’t celebrate that way.

“At the Room of Requirement, “ he confirmed. “Can you come two hours after Potions this afternoon?”

He was going to be there as soon as the class was over, and would make sure Marco came, too, but he needed a little time for the two of them alone. His friends caught on, and didn’t comment on it.

“Bring Ginny, too,” he added before starting to walk once more towards the school.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco flew into the Room of Requirement after Ace, and he froze at the sight that greeted him there.

He didn’t even notice the door closing behind him, or that he had transformed until his feet touched the wooden floor. And that was what had frozen him, the wooden floor at his feet, the railings far at each side of the expanse of a deck he no longer was able to recall, the masts and folded sails, the magically created waves crashing against the vessel...

He realized he was crying when everything turned too blurry to discern any shapes.

He rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and looked around some more. Every time he laid his eyes on something, memories that had been blurry for too long grew clearer. There was the unofficial training area of the deck, where nobody walked into without being ready to dodge at any moment because fights tended to break out without previous notice; looking up, he could see the crow’s nest of the main mast of the ship, their flag blowing proudly over it; behind him, the door that led to the school was the same one that would open to the bathrooms the nurses refused to enter because they almost always were too much of a mess; off to one side, there was a huge, empty chair that had Marco walk blindly to it. He couldn’t see once more, but he didn’t care. He placed his hands on it and rested his forehead against the seat.

Behind him, he heard soft footsteps.

“There’s more,” Ace said, and placed a hand on his arm. “Want a tour?”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had known, even if he had never dared to ask, that Marco couldn’t remember clearly most of what had happened so long ago. Events, yes, he could remind himself of those, but images, sounds, faces... all of that was bound to have started to disappear after a time.

He took him around the ship, making as many stops as Marco needed, and ended the visit at the area he knew would affect Marco the most. Now they were sitting on the floor of the mess hall, against a bench of one of the many tables, staring up at the wall covered in the wanted posters of every member and ally of the crew. Marco had staggered upon seeing it, taken a step forward and then fallen, unable to hold himself up no doubt against the onslaught of known forgotten faces.

Harry had managed to move him against the bench, where he didn’t have to hold his weight up and could see every picture. Harry watched as Marco, face covered in tears he no longer bothered to try to remove, took in every face, every detail he had forgotten over the years.

Harry looked, too, even though he was able to remember them well enough that he had been able to ask the room for such an accurate recreation. He had found himself crying, too, when they had entered what had been their cabin. He had kept Luffy’s first wanted poster there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubted a lot about what sort of prank Marco could play on Minerva, because she was a must here, but then RedPirana told me that little tidbit about the bleach (I didn't know) and I couldn't resist :) 
> 
> I decided not to prank Lupin for two reasons: first, as Marco said, it wasn't intentional on his part, and he's not the sort of guy who would laugh a lot about it or go around telling the story to make others laugh (I don't think, at least, which doesn't mean he would stop others from doing it, either). Also, if he was pranked, many people would suspect Severus, and Marco wouldn't want to give trouble to a friend, much less when he's sort of taking care of him with the whole thing.
> 
> Originally, the third book says quidditch practice this year is three days a week, but doesn't specify which ones. I chose those because it fit with the plot.


	22. Celebrations

By the time Ron, Hermione and Ginny were to arrive, Marco had composed himself enough to stand up and walk away from the mess hall after one last, lingering look to the wanted posters.

“You know we can come here anytime, right?” Harry asked as they walked back to the entrance. We could even move training here and all.

Marco stopped, and a blink later Harry found himself caught in a tight hug. Maybe he should be bothered that Marco insisted on doing that, but Harry really liked it. He hugged him back.

“Thank you,” Marco said into his hair.

Harry shook his head. Marco didn’t have to thank him for that, but he didn’t say it out loud because he knew how important this was for Marco.

The food he had asked the house elves to send to the room was already spread on a long table on deck when they entered, and it didn’t take long for the other three to arrive. They didn’t know _what_ they had to ask the room to be allowed in, Harry hadn’t told them, but he had asked the room to let them in, and it had worked.

“Welcome to the Moby Dick!” he greeted with a wide grin as they entered, spreading his arms to both sides in a welcoming gesture.

“Moby Dick?” Hermione, the only one who knew that name from somewhere else, asked with a curious look. That made Harry pause. He had never stopped to think about the coincidence in the names. As a kid, he had believed his subconscious had adopted that name from the book because he had heard of it, and he hadn’t thought about it since he had learned it was all real.

Marco chuckled behind him.

“I may have been responsible for that one,” he admitted, earning surprised looks from the two.

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Ginny asked Ron, who looked as lost as she sounded. He shook his head.

“It’s a book,” Hermione told them, but surprisingly didn’t elaborate. Instead, she turned to Marco. “I’m sorry I don’t have a present, but Harry just told me today it’s your birthday. Still, happy birthday,” she told him, smiling in what Harry knew was her peace offering.

Marco did, too, but he couldn’t resist poking at her, it seemed.

“Oh? You’re talking to me? No glares?”

Hermione blushed in embarrassment, and Marco grinned.

“Thanks,” he told her, and ruffled her hair in that way Harry found so annoying but oddly liked. He wasn’t the only one, judging by Hermione’s embarrassed glare.

The two Weasleys wished him a happy birthday too, although it would be more accurate to say Ginny blushed and half-stammered it out. Harry raised his eyebrows and gave a pointed look at Marco, because it turned out he had been right and Ginny _had_ developed a crush on him. Marco directed him an equally pointed look that reminded him that Ginny still had a crush on him too.

“Hey, you really got a lot of food!” Ron exclaimed, seeing the waiting table and heading straight for it.

“Isn’t that too much?” Hermione asked dubiously.

“Ace is here,” Marco said, as if that explained it all. Which it did. Hermione nodded in understanding.

Being back on the deck of the Moby Dick eating with friends, even if they were only five people present, reminded Harry of the parties with the crew. Back then there had even been teams that focused their efforts on holding him back from time to time to ensure everybody around him could get their hands on some food too. It was no different now, only that the restraining team consisted solely of Marco —who had played that role often enough in the past— pulling him back from a section of the table when he had decimated the food there too much and ensuring he wouldn’t leave the others without food.

“You know, it’s been a long time since I played any cards,” Harry commented when the food was mostly gone, only some dessert left, and he had attention to spare for something else.

“Do you want to play something?” Marco asked.

“A game from your past?” Ginny asked enthusiastically.

Harry looked at Marco, who looked right back at him, and they both burst out laughing. Ginny was confused by this, and Ron and Hermione didn’t seem much better.

“What?” asked Ron.

“You’re too young for that,” Marco told them. “And we don’t have money. The other option was to bet clothes.”

“Clothes?!” Hermione exclaimed, scandalized.

“It was fun,” Harry said, a fond smile on his face as he remembered the last game he had dreamed about. That one had ended on a full out brawl on deck that Izo had been forced to stop when weapons were pulled out.

“Ace always lost. He insisted on walking around shirtless and had less to bet with,” Marco told them, and Ginny blushed to the roots of her hair.

“I don’t remember you complaining,” Ace said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, I didn’t. Not at all.”

Ron looked between them, confused, and Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Care to share anything, you two?”

Harry looked at Marco. He didn’t mind telling them, not at all, so it was up to him.

“Ace and I were lovers.” Marco didn’t mind, either, it would seem.

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Ginny’s face turned even redder and Ron dropped the pudding he had been about to eat.

“Lovers?” he asked. “You’re two guys.”

Harry frowned, and didn’t glare because Ron was his friend and only thirteen years old.

“So? Two guys can be together too, you know.”

“Huh. I hadn’t thought about that,” Ron admitted, and continued to eat.

Ron didn’t seem to give it any more importance and Ginny was busy staring down at her plate. Hermione, however, had frowned and narrowed her eyes, and Harry knew an interrogation was coming.

“You two haven’t done anything, have you?” she asked, and glared at them.

Marco choked.

“No! Damn it, Hermione, he’s a kid!”

“Hey!” Harry complained. “I’m not a kid!”

“You’re barely five feet tall, Ace. You’re a kid.”

Harry frowned, and would have continued arguing if he hadn’t noticed that Hermione had nodded. Her glare was gone.

“What will you do, then?”

Marco shrugged.

“We’re waiting, I guess.” He looked at Harry at this, and Harry was surprised to realize Marco wasn’t so sure about that himself.

“Of course we’re waiting, but I’m jumping him as soon as he stops saying I’m a kid.” Even Hermione blushed at this proclamation, but Marco smiled at him gratefully.

Harry couldn’t believe Marco had had _any_ doubts that they would get back together after everything they had shared and the conversations they had had since Harry had remembered.

He stood up.

“Since we can’t play cards, do you want a look around the ship?”

Ron, Ginny and Hermione scrambled to their feet, eager to see the ship they had been hearing so much about. Walking around it with them was a completely different experience than it had been earlier with Marco. They showed them any relevant and irrelevant place and told them anecdotes that had happened there —some needed to be edited a little for the young and innocent audience, but they managed it— and it was a much more relaxed experience. Marco had managed to get his emotions under control and didn’t react to anything the way he had before. Showing them their cabin was a little strange, as the place was full of recreations of their things, including strewn clothes and papers, but Harry wanted to show them the picture of Luffy from the wanted poster. It felt surreal, talking about a brother he didn’t have in this life, but Luffy would be his brother no matter how many lives he lived, and he was proud of him.

They were standing before the wall of wanted posters, Harry next to Marco to ensure he was really alright as they talked about the people there, when Hermione suddenly jumped in place, startling them all.

“I got it!” she exclaimed, a wide grin on her face.

“You got... what?” Ron asked cautiously. When Hermione was this enthusiastic it usually meant there was a trip to the library ahead, and he didn’t like those.

“The present!” She turned to Marco. “You said you can store things in the Room of Requirement, but that you can’t take its creations out because they just exist here, right?” He nodded. “What about copying them?”

“Copying?” Marco asked, a spark entering his eyes.

“Yes, copying. I’ve read there are some spells for that. I don’t know any, but I could look into them —it would take a while, with all my classes and homework, but I’m sure I could find one that—“

Marco rested a hand on her head, cutting her off.

“I would love that,” he told her, and there was the rarest of his smiles, the one that took over his entire face and made him close his eyes. Harry loved that smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco sighed, bent over a parchment on a desk in his and Ace’s classroom as he tried to come up with a good enough text. Negotiations over the book had turned out to be more complicated than he had expected. The seller didn’t want to be directly involved in the exchange, no doubt afraid that it would all end up being a trap of the aurors or something like that, and that meant Borgin would have to acquire the book before being able to give it to Marco. Which in turn meant the seller wanted full payment in advance, something Marco wasn’t going to agree to because there existed the very real possibility that he wouldn’t see the book if he paid for it beforehand.

That left him with the option of having Borgin forward the money and _then_ Marco would pay him once he went to collect the book. That was a complicated deal to have Borgin agree to, and the best chance Marco had of doing so was to convince him that his life was at stake here if he didn’t procure what Marco required. This meant now Marco was left with the task of composing one of the most subtly threatening letters he had ever written.

He hated politics, he much rather just go wherever what he wanted was and take it. He wouldn’t even feel guilty about it, because he very much doubted the current owner of the book was a decent human being.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’ll be away on Halloween night,” Marco told Ace one Thursday evening while they showered in one of the many bathrooms of the Moby Dick. Finally, they had decided to turn it into their preferred location for their training sessions, or for whenever they met at the Room of Requirement.

“Why’s that?” Ace asked from the next stall, his voice slightly muffled by the wall and the falling water.

“I have found one of the books, but the shopkeeper who has it now is paranoid and doesn’t want to meet another day.”

Something clanked on the tiled floor and Ace muttered under his breath.

“What’s so special about Halloween?”

“People are distracted,” he explained, pouring some shampoo on his hand and rubbing it on his hair. “The aurors are overworked due to the parties everywhere and it’s less likely they will spot anything. Not that they would either way. Borgin and Burkes is a shady shop, but it’s a well known one and not considered one of the most dangerous in Knockturn Alley. Many people go there.”

“Okay, so you won’t be here for the feast?”

The water in the other shower turned off and he heard Ace walk out of the stall.

“No. I don’t know if that book has any curses, but either way I’m not bringing something like that to the school with the level of security there is here now until I’ve seen what it contains,” he answered as he rinsed his hair.

“How do you get past the dementors, anyway?”

Marco left his stall, too, and smiled at the sight of Ace hopping in place as he tried to get into his uniform trousers.

“It’s not difficult, they don’t notice animal forms as much as they do human ones,” he explained, grabbing a towel to dry himself. “As long as I fly high enough, they don’t pay me any attention.”

“... Useful.”

 _More useful than you think_ , Marco thought to himself, but didn’t voice it out loud.

“When will you be back, then?”

“The next day, probably. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Instead of answering with a joke or his terrible innocent expression, Ace frowned.

“What is it?” Marco asked.

“The first Hogsmeade visit is that day.” He was pouting, but Marco didn’t feel like being attacked and didn’t point it out.

“I’ll leave late in the afternoon.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was strange, Marco thought, to be storing things here again.

Once they had decided to use the Moby Dick as their main location in the Room of Requirement, Marco had moved all the things he had kept in a storage unit created by the room to the replica of their cabin. Ace, too, had decided to keep here some clothes, even a spare school uniform, to change into after a training session.

Right now, Marco was browsing through his assorted collection of expensive robes in search of the most appropriate outfit for his meeting that night.

A whistle from the door that led to the hallway made him raise his head to see Ace standing there, chocolate frog in hand.

"You know how weird it is to have a kid do that?"

Instead of being offended, Ace smirked.

"Then you shouldn't walk around shirtless. It's too tempting."

Marco scoffed.

"Aren't you a little young to be saying stuff like that?"

Ace shrugged, walking into the cabin.

"I think remembering our relationship has triggered all the memories."

"Are you dreaming about us?" Marco asked, doing his best to keep the longing and envy out of his voice. He remembered many things that had happened, but mostly only as sequences of actions: there weren't many images, sounds or sensations that remained in his mind from so long ago, and many of those that did had only come back recently.

Ace's face fell, telling Marco that he hadn't been successful.

"So far, it's mostly kisses and some groping."

Marco had loved how Ace's face looked after a good kiss, he knew, but that was one of so many images he couldn't recall.

"Help me here," he said, needing a change of topic.

Ace nodded.

"What are you doing?" he asked, walking closer

"I'm choosing my clothes for later. I need to look intimidating, but not so much that I'll draw unwanted attention."

"Black clothes," Ace said immediately, something Marco had already decided. "And a cloak, of course." Ace walked around the bed to look at Marco's small collection of boots, his eyes settling on the steel-tipped, dragon hide pair. "I guess not those. Pity, they'd look great."

 

* * *

 

 

Marco landed at eleven that night on a deserted side alley to Knockturn Alley and transformed fast enough that no flash of blue fire had any chance of appearing before he had reached his human form. He pulled the hood of his cloak up and walked out into the main alley, aware that anybody who saw him would simply assume he had apparated there.

He moved confidently and measured his steps so that they would not betray his impatience. He could think of many ways he would prefer to spend the night than in one of the seedier areas of magical Britain. The banquet at the school must be over by now, but, instead of harassing the staff for food or directly steal it from them as he usually did whenever he attended a meal, his dinner today had come from Ace's generous emergency rations in the replica of the Moby Dick, food mostly bought by Marco whenever he left the school.

Borgin startled when Marco pushed the door open, and gave him the briefest of unsure looks that told Marco he wasn't sure of how the meeting would go. It would go smoothly, of course, unless Borgin tried something funny.

"Welcome, Sir," Borgin greeted with his usual simpering voice and practiced fake smile. He had been trying to subtly get Marco's name through the letters to no avail.

"Mr. Borgin," Marco greeted back, pushing his hood back and smiling politely. He had had many years to perfect his acting skills. "I believe my book is already here, isn't it?" he asked in a casual tone, walking up to the counter.

"Of course, Sir, I have it right here."

Marco pretended not to notice that Borgin was wearing gloves, ones he could feel were layered with protective charms and probably were a requirement for his job, given the objects he handled. Instead, Marco took the bag of galleons that contained the agreed upon sum out of one of the inner pockets of his robes. Borgin's eyes settled greedily on it.

"Then, if you don't mind..."

"Right away, Sir!" Borgin bent down, took a box from under the counter and placed it on top of it. Opening it, he revealed _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

Marco barely managed to repress a scoff. The book itself wasn't cursed —which was a good thing because any curses weaved into a book like this were bound to be nasty— but someone had placed a few curses of their own on it. Wizards knew that curses could be sensed, though not everybody could do it and there didn't exist any sure way to train someone to do it —which was why curse-detection spells had been invented in the first place— but, contrary to what they believed, it wasn't a special magical skill that allowed it, but kenbunshoku haki tuned to magic. Marco had had plenty of time to tune his haki to magic, and he could tell the spells on the book were meant to make him forget he had wanted it and leave believing he had what he had wanted from this meeting. He didn't know if it had been Borgin or the book's owner who had placed the spells, but in both cases they would get to keep the money if the spells worked, and there was no way Borgin hadn't tested the book before getting anywhere near it.

Marco smirked at Borgin, letting him know that he knew the spells were there, and then, very deliberately, grabbed the book with both hands. A sudden displacement of air signalled that the spells had been broken.

Borgin's eyes opened like saucers. To him, it must look like Marco had broken them wandlessly and nonverbally, making him seem like an extremely powerful wizard. What Borgin didn't know was that busoshoku haki could break many spells if used correctly —with the exception of the strongest, that in the case of curses usually were the deadliest and thus useless against Marco— and Marco had imbued his hands with busoshoku haki before touching the book, breaking the curses upon contact.

"Really, Mr. Borgin?" Marco asked, raising his eyebrows.

Borgin was positively shaking.

"I-I di-didn't know... I swear..."

Marco shook his head.

"You are extremely lucky I am in such a good mood today," he said, and added one of the smiles that Ace defined as 'creepy' just for good measure. Borgin shuffled back. "Be sure to conduct a thorough examination next time."

Borgin nodded quickly, and barely managed to catch the bag of money when Marco threw it at him.

Marco pulled a small pouch, half the size of the money bag he had given Borgin, from the same inner pocket where that bag had been. It had an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, and Marco put the book inside before returning it to his pocket.

"I'll see you soon, Mr. Borgin."

As Marco left the store, he realized it was very unlikely there wouldn't come at least a small rumour out of this meeting.

He sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the last century, Marco had developed a liking for expensive hotels. It wasn't that he had grown picky, he could sleep easily almost anywhere, and nothing beat a well lived in cabin on a ship, but he liked to, sometimes, spend a ridiculous amount of money on a night at a place full of fancy and, strictly speaking, unnecessary commodities.

But not even laying on the softest and most comfortable of beds helped at all to make more bearable the contents of the book he was barely browsing right now. The very late dinner he had asked for earlier now sat heavily in his stomach.

It would take a while to read through this book, he realized, even if he only skimmed the contents in search of any mention about souls.

He would have to find a place to keep the book, where he could study it comfortably, because there was no way he was taking this back to the school.

Technically, he _could_ do it, as the book had no spells that would draw attention to it. Studying it in the Room of Requirement would be the easiest thing to do, as that way he wouldn't have to leave the school grounds, but Marco knew he wouldn't be able to keep it away from Ace then. He refused to let Ace see this, no amount of experience as a pirate could prepare him for the read —even Marco, who had seen practically everything, felt sick by most of the magic exposed here. And there was the added risk of Hermione, Ginny or Ron seeing it. Content aside, he doubted he could explain why he had a book like this. Those kids had been raised in a society than in many cases didn't accept that sometimes you had to learn what your enemies knew in order to fight them.

They didn't know anything about war past what they had heard from others, and Marco would prefer that things stayed that way.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco realized something was wrong the moment he approached the school. The dementors were roaming the borders in what could only be called a frenzied state, and he was forced to fly higher than usual and manoeuvre a little to avoid them.

Wanting to know what had happened, Marco headed for the open window of Albus' office —where he could feel Fudge's presence as well— and flew in. Albus looked at him, oddly serious, but Fudge was too worked up to notice his entrance.

"—Unbelievable..." he was muttering. "Hogwarts is supposed to be safe... if you had allowed the dementors to look..."

"No dementors will enter the grounds, and even less the school, Cornelius," Albus said before Fudge could continue.

"But Black did, Dumbledore! And he _escaped_!"

_Oh, fuck, I can't leave for a day without something happening._

As soon as Fudge left, Marco was going to get the entire story out of Albus.


	23. The quidditch match

To say that Harry was in a bad mood would be a very serious understatement. Last night, Sirius Black had entered the castle during the Halloween feast and had slashed the Fat Lady's portrait when she had refused to let him into the Gryffindor Tower without the password. As Marco hadn't been in the castle, no one had noticed Black's presence. Harry hadn't even been able to sneak out and search for Black because the students were sent to sleep to the Great Hall and, as Hermione pointed out to him, he would have all staff eyes not searching for Black on him. She had also thrown in a very low blow reminding Harry that he had promised he would take Marco if he ever went looking for Black.

That had been a dirty move.

The worst was that the people in the school didn’t seem to have received the memo that Black wasn’t in the grounds anymore, and many eyes were on him as if expecting that Black would appear out of nowhere to slice him open. Today was Monday, and Harry hadn't been able to sneak out at any moment to search for Marco because there had always been at least one professor present wherever he was. And Percy kept clumsily trying to follow him _discretely_.

By dinnertime Harry wanted to punch someone.

He saw Marco in his small phoenix form perched on Dumbledore's chair, but the most they could do was exchange glances. Later, Harry was unable to escape the common room because the place was packed and Percy was keeping guard. Ron finally dragged him upstairs before he snapped.

Tuesday didn’t look like it would be any better, Harry realized, when Professor Sprout found an excuse to walk with his class to Hagrid’s cabin for Care of Magical Creatures. Harry cursed under his breath, spotting Marco flying near the group as well. He decided to try to sneak away on their way back to the school, but his plan was ruined when Sprout _casually_ happened to walk with them then, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione landed on the grounds, halfway between Hagrid’s cabin and the school, a little over twenty minutes before Care of Magical Creatures was due to begin, and she immediately started running to the doors. She had around ten minutes before her classmates —and her past self— left the Great Hall, more than enough time for her to reach the entrance and be up by the Arithmancy classroom.

She was walking through a hallway on the second floor when she noticed a very familiar bird waiting ahead of her. Marco pointed with a wing to a door and Hermione walked through it, finding herself in an empty classroom. Marco flew in and kicked the door shut —it was still strange to see such a small bird display that amount of strength. Hermione pulled her wand out and cast a locking and silencing charm on the door.

Marco transformed.

“How’s Ace?”

It was strange, too, that Hermione had grown used to Marco calling Harry ‘Ace’. She had trouble picturing him not doing so, now.

“Not well,” she answered, shaking her head. “He’s angry because he missed Black on Halloween night, and now the professors and Percy are following him everywhere, and that annoys him a lot.”

Also, now that the Fat Lady couldn’t ward the entrance to the Common Room, Dumbledore had been forced to find a substitute —some batty middle ages knight who challenged everybody to duels and had already changed the password five times in two days. Harry had got in a fight with the portrait last night because they didn’t have the new password, and now the portrait, Sir Cadogan, insulted him every time he saw him. They had gotten into another fight that same morning, which didn’t help at all Harry’s temper.

“Tell him not to do anything too stupid. I’ll try to get the job of watching him, and then the others should stop keeping track of him after a few days.”

Hermione couldn’t help but look sceptical.

“You’ll get the job? _How_?”

“I’ll convince Albus, of course.”

Hermione realized that Professor Dumbledore was insane enough to actually agree to assign the task to his phoenix.

 

* * *

 

 

Convincing Albus to let him keep an eye on Ace had been easy. That Albus convinced the rest of the staff that they could stop keeping such close watch on Ace because Marco was on it, not so much. It had been the reminder of Marco’s ‘help’ against the basilisk, combined with the fact that most members of staff had a lot of work and the rational knowledge that it was extremely unlikely that Sirius Black would attack in the middle of the day and in hallways full of students that finally convinced them. Still, it wasn’t until Thursday afternoon that Ace was able to sneak out to the Room of Requirement, and by then he looked murderous.

“Look at it on the bright side: it could have been much longer before you could leave,” Marco told him once Ace had finished describing in great detail what he thought of his unwanted babysitters.

Ace scoffed.

“Yes, well, it’s been too long. McGonagall asked me to stay behind a couple of days ago after class and wanted to tell me about Black being after me. She seemed sure I would be terrified, and looked shocked when I told her I already knew.”

“But that wouldn’t make you angry, so what is it?”

“We have the first Quidditch match on Saturday,” Ace said, dropping back on the floor and staring up at the recreated sky in annoyance. “McGonagall wanted me to _drop_ _Quidditch_!” he exclaimed, and Marco almost snorted.

Ace was as competitive now as he had been in his previous life, and the sport brought that trait out in him. Marco wasn’t a great fan of Quidditch, he found watching the sport boring and would never trust anything but his wings to fly unless he was left no other option. Still, he sat down next to Ace.

“I guess you convinced her to continue playing, or you would be in detention for the rest of your life after your reaction.”

Ace smirked. They could both imagine Minerva would have been scandalized at the vocabulary he knew and the level his anger could reach.

“Yeah, but I had to agree to another _babysitter_.”

“Oh?”

“Hooch will be supervising our training sessions,” Ace muttered. “Anyway,” he said a bit brusquely, in an obvious move to change the topic, “do you have the book?”

Marco nodded.

“I didn’t bring it here, though, that thing is too dark.” It wasn’t, technically, a lie. The book _was_ dark, even if only in content and not in traceable spells, but Ace didn’t seem to get the omission in Marco’s sentence. He just nodded.

“Then what will you do?”

“I rented a flat in London and took out a few enchanted objects from my Gringotts vault to keep people away from there.”

Mostly, a few thumbtacks enchanted with muggle repellent spells that would make whoever approached believe they had something else to do and promptly forget about the place, as well as a notice-me-not charm to deal with any wizard that wasn’t looking too closely at the place —which they had no reason to. Having objects enchanted was easy, there were wizards specialized in doing so because many people wasn’t good at that kind of spell work, but Marco still remembered the puzzled look on the face of the witch he had commissioned for the job when she had seen the objects he wanted her to enchant.

Who would suspect to find an enchantment in a thumbtack when there were tons of more likely objects in any room?

“You have a vault at Gringotts?” Ace asked, slightly surprised.

“Of course I do. Anybody can have a vault there as long as they pay, the goblins don’t really care if their clients are wizards, muggles or magical creatures. Besides, they _do_ believe I’m a wizard, even if an odd one. I think they think I’m a hybrid, actually.” Which was amusing, really, because technically the goblins weren’t wrong about that part, only about the wizard one. They believed it because they could sense the lack of magic in muggles, and knew he wasn’t one, so by default a non-muggle human had to be a wizard.

“And what do they think about you living for so long?”

Marco smirked.

“That I have a Philosopher’s Stone, naturally. They’ve been dropping hints about how safe Gringotts is for centuries now. They feel pride on safeguarding rare items, and I think they are a little offended that I haven’t trusted them with something so valuable despite all their subtle offers.”

Ace chuckled.

“Wonder what they’d think if they knew you don’t have one... Hey! Do you have any fruits in there?”

“A few, yes.” One goblin had seen him storing there the last one he had found —a zoan type that allowed whoever ate it to turn into a lion— and had given him a strange look and a disdainful one to the fruit. Marco had found it amusing that the goblin didn’t realize that he was disregarding as worthless what was without a doubt one of the most valuable items in the world.

They drifted into silence and Marco looked up at the sky. The sun was setting, even though outside of the room it was too early in the day for that, and some stars were growing visible in the darker stretch of sky.

“So, the book?” Ace prompted.

“I’ll go read it there. I haven’t gone back yet, after what happened with Black. It’s going to take me a while, because that thing is messed up. I don’t think I’m going to read it more than two hours in one day.”

“That bad?”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had been distracted talking to Oliver Wood about some last minute strategies for the match that Friday morning —it seemed that the Hufflepuff team’s new seeker, a guy named Cedric Diggory, was pretty good, and Wood was telling Harry everything he knew about him— and he arrived late to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

When he opened the door, the apology died in Harry’s mouth.

Instead of Lupin, who would have waved it off with a comment to be more careful about the time from now on, he was met with the angry face of Severus Snape.

“This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think we’ll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down,” Snape told him.

Harry blinked. Before Snape could open his mouth and lash out at him for not moving, even before his own mouth could run with any of the comments that crossed his mind, he had a moment of sheer clarity of mind.

He took a step back, slammed the door shut and took off at a run at the fastest speed he could reach.

There was _no way_ he could survive an entire class with Snape when he hadn’t prepared himself for it, much less in his current mood. He would end up in detention either way, and it was very likely the punishment would be milder if he simply fled the classroom than it would be for whatever reaction he would have by being forced to suffer Snape’s horrible behaviour a second time the day before a Quidditch match —he had already had Potions during first period today, and the only reason he had survived it had been because he had finally been able to see Marco last night and had released some of his pent up anger.

It occurred to Harry that, if Hermione didn’t worry so much about her own behaviour in class, she would have come chasing after him to drag him back in. That would have been an interesting scene.

 

* * *

 

 

The Room of Requirement was the best place to hide. Even if the staff knew about it —of which Harry wasn’t sure— they had no reason to suspect that _he_ knew it existed, and so, it wasn’t very likely they would search for him here if they even decided to look. Even if they did, Harry knew someone needed to know what they were looking for when the room was already in use to be able to enter it, and there were only four other people in the castle who knew about the Moby Dick.

He didn’t need to open his eyes —he was trying to doze on deck— when the door opened ten minutes later to know it was Marco.

“Don’t you have class now?”

“Are you keeping track of me?” Harry asked instead of answering.

He heard Marco come closer and sit next to him.

“Me? Why would I? It’s not like you have a madman after your head or anything like that.”

Harry smirked.

“Touché.”

“You haven’t answered.”

Harry finally opened his eyes and looked up at the bright, clear sky. The room must have felt how sick he was of the storm that had been going for days, because the weather couldn’t be farther from that in here. It felt nice.

“I didn’t want to deal with Snape again today.”

“He’s covering for Lupin?”

Ace turned his head to look at Marco.

“That’s what it seemed. Is Lupin sick?”

Marco nodded and looked down at him.

“Did Severus see you?”

“Yeah, I kind of slammed the door in his face.” It was a pity, Harry thought. He would have liked to see Snape’s expression at that.

Marco snorted, raised a hand and ruffled his hair.

“Enjoy detention, then. You might get a toothbrush to clean the toilets if he feels charitable.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry said, trying to swat the hand away.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s reaction at Defence class had reached the ears of every single student in the school by the time he entered the Great Hall for lunch. He was congratulated, whistled at, and Fred and George even asked jokingly for his autograph. Harry didn’t bat an eye when Snape stalked up to him and assigned him two weeks of detention. He considered it a win that his detention would be supervised by Filch instead of by Snape himself —he would be cleaning toilets again, which seemed to be Snape’s preferred detention for him. If Harry bothered to look into it, he would probably notice a message there, but he didn’t care.

He was treated to Ron’s speechless admiration —but he did speak to complain about how Snape had assigned them an essay of two rolls of parchment about werewolves, which they hadn’t even started to study with Lupin— as well as a very long scolding from Hermione that had people around them flinching in sympathy.

But not even such a great feat could distract people for long from tomorrow’s Quidditch match, and Hermione was cut mid-rant by Wood, who sat in front of Harry to continue talking about what he knew of Cedric Diggory and the moves and strategies he preferred.

 

* * *

 

 

The weather was horrible.

Any sensible human being would have postponed the Quidditch match for another day, but, as no one could accuse most wizards of being sensible human beings and Albus Dumbledore was no exception in that regard, the match would be played as scheduled. Or it would have. Technically, Gryffindor was supposed to go up against Slytherin, but the Slytherin team had used Malfoy’s imaginary injury as an excuse to have it changed, and now Gryffindor had to play against Hufflepuff.

The Gryffindor team had learned this news after their training session on Thursday, and Ace had bitterly told Marco during their impromptu meeting when Ace had left Defence class yesterday.

At breakfast, when he had flown over the Gryffindor table to go to his perch on Albus’ seat, Marco had heard the Gryffindor team complaining loudly about it —Ace the loudest— and mocking the Slytherin team for their cowardice. The Slytherins hadn’t seemed bothered, they had been making fun of the upcoming match, at least until Draco Malfoy had squealed and covered his supposedly injured arm with his other hand.

Marco had been very proud to notice he couldn’t spot Ace’s wand when he looked at him. But Ace would have to do something about the smug smirk, because otherwise it would give him away someday.

Wizards, it was necessary to point out, were obsessed with Quidditch. Their obsession reached such a point that the entire school headed out of the safe and dry building to go watch the match, despite the fact that the wind was so strong that it had destroyed half the umbrellas by the time they reached the Quidditch pitch and that half of the students didn’t know how to cast spells to avoid being soaked by the rain.

Marco flew to the stands next to Albus, and waited with the rest for the teams to come out. It didn’t take long, it felt almost as if they wanted to hurry things along and have the match over with as soon as possible, and in a less than two minutes they were up in the sky and the match had started.

Even with his enhanced sight in this form, it took some effort to actually _see_ the movements of the players —he could make out their shapes, but what those shapes were doing was harder to distinguish— and he started to unconsciously rely more on haki.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he didn’t find Quidditch all that interesting, and soon his attention drifted off. He kept part of his senses honed in on Ace’s presence, but the rest he used to try to identify other presences in the stadium. The closer together presences were, the harder it was to distinguish them, and it took some effort to be able to pinpoint one presence amongst a crowd as large as this one. It was easier to do with the more familiar ones, and harder with those less known.

Minerva was at the other end of the same stand as he and Albus were, standing next to that student friend of Fred and George Weasley who commentated the matches, Lee Jordan. It was a pity that the storm didn’t let Marco hear his words —the wind blew in the wrong direction— because Jordan’s inappropriate commentary always helped a lot to make the matches more entertaining. Hagrid was at the Gryffindor stands, as he usually was, next to Ron and Hermione —he was probably providing a cover from the rain far better than any umbrella, at this point, and Ginny was standing close to them with a group of girls from her year that she was finally becoming friends with. Severus was with the Slytherin students, which was strange because he usually stood with the rest of the staff unless Slytherin was playing. Marco guessed it was because of the barely hidden accusations that the other members of the staff had been throwing his way because of the change in the match. Marco wasn’t going to help there, Severus should never have allowed Malfoy to take his farce so far.

Oliver Wood called for a time-out, and Marco felt Hermione hurrying in the direction of the team. He hoped she had had some idea to help them a little, because the conditions were simply terrible for flying.

The match soon started again, and it became clear that nothing had changed as far as the spectators were concerned. Marco’s senses drifted off again, and he tried to locate presences he was less familiar with. Neville Longbottom was two or perhaps three rows behind Hagrid; Draco Malfoy was at the edge of the Slytherin stands, no doubt trying to see what was happening in hopes that Ace had an accident; at the left edge of the Ravenclaw stands was the second year blonde girl Marco had seen walking alone sometimes —her classmates, especially from her own house, bullied her, and Marco had pranked more than one of them already.

He noticed a muted presence off to the top of the stands, at one of the areas farther from him. It was familiar, but it didn’t exactly feel like one of the presences he perceived every day. It felt off, somehow, as if it had been drowned and only part of it remained now. It took him a moment to realize why it was familiar. He _had_ felt it daily once, but that had been years ago.

 _Sirius Black_.

Marco jumped up in the sky, which required more effort than it usually would. He took off in that direction, barely remembering to be careful not to crash into any player.

The presences he had been subconsciously keeping track of since the beginning of the school year moved. They started to come closer.

The dementors were approaching.

Marco stopped mid-flight, then turned around and headed as fast as he could back towards Albus. He invaded his personal space, and halted just before colliding against his face. He started to gesture as best as he could with his wings, trying to depict a hood.

He could see Albus’ lips moving, and heard through the wind how he asked what was going on.

Giving up on that gesture, Marco flew up and down shaping a D.

The temperature in the pitch dropped.

The noise around him began to fade to a distant roar, and the world darkened.

_"Are you going to do it?" Marco asked._

Marco shook his head, gave up in his efforts —if Albus hadn’t realized already that the dementors were coming, he would soon— and flew in Ace’s direction.

_"I don't know," Pops answered, "I might have no choice."_

Ace had frozen in the sky, Marco barely could discern Diggory flying up towards a golden speck, and Marco could feel the dementors closing in. A hundred of them, more or less, huddling at the ground of the pitch.

_There was a long silence. Marco didn't know what to say. He wanted to beg Pops not to do it, to claim that, without a doubt, there would be another way, but he couldn't. He couldn't even lie to himself._

He could barely hold it together. Only his animal form and the distance between himself and the dementors, Marco knew, allowed him to keep conscious, but the cold had already settled in his bones and it felt like it would never go away.

Ace tumbled to the right, eyes closed behind his glasses, and his legs untangled from his broomstick.

The broomstick was swept away by the wind.

_Marco pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against and walked to the door._

_"Marco." He stopped upon hearing Pops. "If things come to that, you'll have to take charge."_

_Marco turned around._

The dementors flew up. If he wasn’t drowning in terror, Marco would have lost consciousness, but there was nothing the dementors could take away from him when he could only be terrified about Ace.

He dug his claws into the arm of Ace’s uniform when he was halfway to the ground. He used haki, and that was why the fabric didn’t rip and instead his claws buried themselves in the flesh of Ace’s arm, holding him in place.

Poppy would have to heal those wounds.

Relief washed over him and the silence and the darkness grew. Dementors liked relief.

_"Of course." Somehow, he managed to pull a small smile for Pops, when inside he was terrified. They were going to try to stop the execution of one of the people he loved the most, and to do that there was the very real possibility that another of the people he loved most would have to sacrifice himself._

A strong white light shone below, and the cold receded.

As he descended, jolting somewhat despite his attempts at being careful with Ace’s unconscious body, Marco saw various patronuses driving the dementors away, Albus’ phoenix flying madly at them. He usually found that sight amusing, the fact that _he_ was Albus’ patronus.

Albus was on the ground, and he cast a spell in Marco and Ace’s direction as he walked, enraged, towards the dementors.

A cushioning charm. That was good, Marco didn’t have a very good grip on his strength at the moment. He left Ace on the wet ground and dropped down next to him.

Ace’s arm was bleeding a lot.

_Oh, damn._


	24. The marauder's map

Poppy had hurried to the ground of the Quidditch pitch and she was fussing over Ace in no time. She tried to move Marco out of the way when she knelt down next to them, but he refused to be moved and she just huffed and proceeded to cast spells on Ace right there, too preoccupied to put any more effort into shooing Marco away.

Marco _knew_ that Ace was mostly fine, he could feel it, and yet he stayed there, pressing against his side because, even with the dementors gone and the temperature back to normal, it felt like the only warmth in the world came from Ace. It probably didn’t help that it was still raining heavily and the storm raged above in the sky.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team landed around them, soon followed by the Hufflepuff team. They all looked ashen, and stared at the unconscious Ace in worry. Marco heard a commotion and turned his head enough to see Cedric Diggory, the snitch grasped in one hand, arguing with Madam Hooch, demanding a rematch because Ace had fallen due to the dementors. Marco barely spared him enough attention to think he was a good guy before turning back to Ace.

He felt horrible. It wasn’t only because of the after effects of the dementors’ presence. That was bad, but what made him feel really bad was that a part of him wished the dementors hadn’t left, because he had been able to see Pops, and that memory now had brought others to the forefront of his mind. They were mostly bad, but this was the first time in a very long while that he could remember Pops so clearly.

Poppy nodded, satisfied that Ace had suffered no serious injury —she had closed the wounds from Marco's talons already— and levitated him off the ground. She turned in the direction of the school, and the Gryffindor team made an attempt to follow her, but she told them to go shower first. Marco did follow, jumping into the sky and flying after them. As they left the pitch, Ron, Hermione and Ginny joined them, pale and staring at Ace in fear, as if they expected to see something horrible happen at any moment.

Outside, a distance away from them, Marco saw Albus, furious and heading with Minerva towards the entrance of the grounds, no doubt to have some words with the dementors.

Marco doubted it would happen, but he hoped this incident would show the Ministry that having dementors stationed at the school wasn’t a good idea. He had more chances of seeing Severus dressed willingly in pink robes.

 

* * *

 

 

When Hermione had seen Harry fall off his broom, she had felt her heart stop. She didn’t want to imagine what could have happened if Marco hadn’t caught him —she hoped Professor Dumbledore would have been able to stop his fall in time, but she didn’t want to think about it.

They were in the Hospital Wing now, the Quidditch team had just arrived —minus Oliver Wood— after what must have been the quickest shower in the history of Hogwarts, and Madam Pomfrey had ordered them all to take chocolate from the plate where she kept it, and now they all stood or sat around the room while she cast some more spells on Harry. He hadn’t been hit anywhere aside from the wounds where Marco —Fawkes was how the staff knew him— had grabbed him, she had told them, but it was best to make sure everything was alright.

Marco was perched on the bedpost of the bed placed to the right of Harry’s, staring at him intently. Hermione took a large piece of chocolate from the plate and approached him, breaking off a smaller bit and offering it to him.

“Here, you haven’t eaten any.”

“He’s a phoenix, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said, not turning from the results of her last spell, “he doesn’t need it.”

Hermione ignored her. Maybe an average phoenix wouldn’t, but Hermione knew that _Marco_ did, more than anyone else present. She didn’t even want to imagine what he might have remembered.

Marco took the chocolate and swallowed it, nodding at her in thanks. Hermione sat down on the bed next to him and kept giving him small bits of it while they waited.

Finally, Madam Pomfrey moved away from Harry’s bed.

“Mister Potter seems to be fine, he should wake up at any moment now.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, and the people who had been standing farther away moved closer, as if expecting him to do just that. Madam Pomfrey looked like she wanted to say something, probably tell them to leave because she didn’t like to have so many people here, but she simply shook her head, told them to not make noise and went into her office.

She was right, and it was only a few minutes before Harry woke up. In hindsight, Hermione realized she should have known that what he would be the most worried about would be the match, and he was terribly upset to learn they had lost against Hufflepuff. Like Wood, who according to Fred was trying to drown himself in the shower. He probably had said that to make Harry smile, but he hadn’t managed it.

After trying to cheer Harry up, which wasn’t very successful because the odds for the Gryffindor team to win the cup now weren’t very good, the Gryffindor team was thrown out of the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey seemed to have had enough of so many people there.

Ginny left with them after telling Harry that she was glad he was alright, and the only ones left were Marco, Ron, Harry and Hermione. It was then that Hermione realized they were the ones that would have to tell Harry about the fate of his broom. She hadn’t paid much attention to its remnants when Professor Flitwick had brought them earlier, but now that she had to tell Harry she was extremely worried. She knew he wouldn’t take it well.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry knew he hadn’t reacted well to the news of his Nimbus Two Thousand having been destroyed by the Whomping Willow. He had yelled at Ron and Hermione —who didn’t deserve it— and Madam Pomfrey had kicked them out for upsetting her patient.

Now, an hour later, he left the few surviving sticks on the bedside table —he had refused to let anybody throw them away— and looked at the only remaining occupant of the room. Madam Pomfrey had left moments ago to go check on some students that still hadn’t recovered from the experience of being exposed to so many dementors —although nobody else had lost consciousness— which left Harry and Marco alone in the Hospital Wing.

“I’m an idiot, right?”

Marco nodded and transformed, coming to sit at the edge of his bed.

“That’s nothing new. How are you feeling?”

“I’m better now.” Harry hesitated, the memory of what he had experienced this time hitting him hard. “I heard my mother," he confessed. "Before Voldemort killed her, she was begging him not to kill me.” He looked down at his hands. “It’s the first time I've heard her voice.”

Marco put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and it was then when it hit Harry that he really _was_ an idiot. He raised his head so fast that his neck hurt.

“How are _you_ feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Marco told him, and Harry would have believed him if he didn’t know him so well.

“Yeah, sure. What did you see?”

Marco turned his head to look at the wall, and Harry took his hand in both of his before he could remove it.

“I saw Pops.”

“Pops?” Harry asked tentatively. He wasn’t sure he was ready to hear how, exactly, Marco had seen him. If it had been his death...

“Before the battle of Marineford. We talked.”

Harry blinked. That didn’t sound like the most horrible memory Marco could have remembered. It was good, he guessed, that Marco hadn’t seen the worst.

“Oh.”

Marco didn’t seem to have heard him, because he continued talking.

“I was terrified that day, I feared I was going to lose the two people I loved the most. I suspected Pops was planning to sacrifice himself at the battle, and I asked him.”

Harry was much more than an idiot. Marco hadn’t remembered something relatively harmless, he had remembered the exact moment he knew for sure he could lose the people he most loved. And he _had_ , because back then Ace had been even more of an idiot and had fallen for Akainu’s obvious bait, getting himself killed right after Pops had made it clear he wasn’t leaving Marineford.

Harry moved forward and hugged Marco. He didn’t apologize, because Marco had told him not to do it, but he hoped the message was getting across to him all the same. Marco wrapped an arm around him.

“Hey,” Harry spoke after a while, and he couldn’t believe he was about to say something like this. “Do you mind staying? As a phoenix, or Madam Pomfrey will have a heart attack. I’m not feeling well, I could use someone to hug.”

And he wasn’t feeling well, but he wasn’t the one who needed the comfort today.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Harry was woken up by the bustle the Gryffindor team, plus Ron and Hermione, made when they entered the Hospital Wing right after breakfast. Harry opened his eyes blearily and sat up, letting go of Marco as he did so. Marco had already been awake, he noticed, but he had been playing as Harry’s plush toy. Even when Harry sat up, he didn’t move from his position curled on the bed, and only opened his eyes to look at the newcomers before closing them again.

Fred looked from one to another and then raised his eyebrows in question. Harry guessed he had to be wondering what was going on with him and ‘Fawkes’, since he had been seen with Harry a couple of times last year. Harry shrugged.

This morning Wood accompanied the rest of the team, but he looked so much like a man who had lost all hope that Harry forgot his own worries over the Quidditch match to assure him that everything wasn’t lost. Wood had told him he didn’t blame Harry for their defeat, and Harry believed him, but he looked so beaten over it that Harry was even more determined than before not to lose another match.

That afternoon, when Madam Pomfrey finally released him from the Hospital Wing, Harry headed for the Room of Requirement accompanied by Ron and Hermione, the remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand clutched in his arms. Marco was already in the copy of the Moby Dick, but once there Harry asked the room to change into a beach. The room was nice enough to keep the temperature low enough that nobody felt the need to take any clothes off, but there was a bright sun shining down on them.

There was a boat full of firewood ready to be set on fire a few feet away.

It had taken some thought, but Harry had decided to say goodbye to his Nimbus the same way that he would to a ship that no longer could sail. He could have done it in the lake, he guessed, but he expected the whole school would be paying attention to him after what had happened at the match. Harry had come straight here to ensure as little people as possible saw him.

Ron and Hermione didn't quite understand what he was doing, but they stood back and watched all the same

Harry walked up to the boat and carefully placed the bits of his broom on it. He caressed them before pulling away, and a lit torch apoeared in his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday came, and with it, classes. Malfoy had removed his bandages after Gryffindor’s defeat and spent the whole Potions class re-enacting Harry falling off the broom, and Harry only managed to control his impulses to beat him up by reminding himself that Malfoy would have peed himself if he had been so close to the dementors. Ron did lose it, however, and threw a crocodile's heart at Malfoy's face. That cost him a detention with Snape himself, because Snape didn't hate Ron so much that he didn't want to see his face more than strictly necessary.

Harry patted him on the back.

After that less than successful class, they had Defence. Ron had decided he would skive off it if Snape was in the classroom again, but luckily for them all Lupin was back, even if he looked pale and not particularly healthy.

As soon as all the students were in class, they started to complain about the monster essay Snape had assigned them — _two rolls of parchment_ — and Professor Lupin told them he would convince Snape so that they wouldn't have to do it. To no one's surprise, Hermione had already done it.

At the end of the class, Lupin asked Harry to stay behind and asked how he was doing after what had happened during the match. Harry, remembering that Hermione had told him Lupin had made the dementor in the train leave, asked Lupin if he could teach him how to do that, and after insisting a while managed to get him to agree. Although he would have to wait until Christmas had passed, because Lupin said he was very busy at the moment.

 

* * *

 

 

"You sensed Black?!" Harry exclaimed later that day, in their training session before Quidditch practice.

"Yes, but right after I felt the dementors moving."

Harry deflated, the fight that had started growing inside of him vanished. He wasn't going to yell at Marco for not catching Black _then_.

"That's bad luck, that he showed up then."

"Not really," Marco answered.

"What? Why not?"

"Because now I _know_ Black's presence. He'll be easier to locate the next time he shows up."

 

* * *

 

 

Marco stayed in the school for three weeks after the disastrous Quidditch match, without leaving for more than the minimum time he needed to pick up his mail, a little paranoid about Black, because he had entered the school two times in less than one week.

Finally, after the match between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw at the end of November —which Ravenclaw won by a lot, meaning Ace was in a great mood because  Gryffindor still had chances to win the cup— as there was still no trace of Black, Marco decided he should start working on the creepy book.

His decision was influenced by the fact that he found Albus reading that same book one night, a grave expression on his face.

"So, that means there _is_ something in that book?" Ace asked when Marco told him.

"Maybe. Albus thought it was worth a look, which means we're at least on the right path."

 

* * *

 

 

With the arrival of December, the Christmas mood began to slowly settle in the castle. Flitwick was the first professor to decorate his classroom accordingly, the others following at their own pace —not all of them, of course, because Snape would sooner swallow one of his own poisons than decorate his classroom in any way that couldn’t be defined as creepy.

Marco had been leaving one or two mornings each week, when Harry was in class, to check the book. Harry had been confused at first, and he almost made the mistake of asking why he didn’t go every day, when that would surely be a lot faster, but he had remembered what Marco had told him about the book. Harry didn’t want to imagine _what_ that book’s contents were if Marco didn’t want to go read it more often. Harry made a point of not mentioning the book, lest Marco felt he should go faster with it.

Two weeks before the end of term, Professor McGonagall passed the list for the students who would be staying in the castle to sign. Ron and Hermione had wanted to stay, worried about him, but Harry had reminded them that he wasn’t going to be alone and would be perfectly safe —he wasn’t worried about Black, but they were, and that was why Harry hadn’t told them that he had been at the match. The real reason why Harry wanted them to leave was because they hadn’t seen their families in months, and he knew they missed them. But he also knew that, if he told them, they would deny it and insist on staying. That was why Harry told them he planned to take advantage of the holidays to step up his training sessions. He knew Ron wouldn’t want to spend the holidays doing what he saw as homework, and Hermione always insisted that she didn’t have time for more than she already did.

Before Harry realized it, the second Hogsmeade trip —the last weekend of the term— snuck up on him.

Harry knew all the reasons why he couldn’t go, and Marco’s explanation that, even if he had permission, he would be shadowed by someone certainly didn’t make the trip look more appealing, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to go. Everybody talked wonders about the village, and he had enjoyed a lot the sweets Ron and Hermione had brought him last time. He knew he could ask Marco to bring him more whenever he wanted, but it didn’t have the same appeal as buying them himself there.

Hogsmeade was just another example of the trouble Black was giving him.

Resigned to his fate, Harry asked Wood for a catalogue of broomsticks —much to his distaste, he had accepted that he would need to buy a replacement— and decided to spend at least part of the day browsing it. Marco was with him, but, as the castle was mostly empty sans some professors and the first and second years, Harry had decided he wanted to explore a little, maybe settle in an area where he had never bothered to stop before.

They were passing through the third floor when someone drew their attention.

 “Psst, Harry!”

Harry turned around and saw Fred and George behind the statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.

“What’re you two doing here?” he asked, because all the students who could had already left. “Aren’t you going to Hogsmeade?”

“Oh, we will,” assured Fred, “but first, we’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go.” He winked at Harry. “Come in here...” he said, gesturing toward the open door of an empty classroom to the left of the statue.

Harry and Marco followed them inside, sharing a confused look —at least on Harry’s part— when Fred and George’s backs were turned. They closed the door and moved to look at him, grinning widely.

 “Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” George said.

Fred pulled a piece of parchment from his cloak and placed it on one of the desks. It was square, large and looked worn, as if it was an old parchment that had seen a lot of use, but nothing was written on it. Harry looked at Marco, who was looking attentively at it, and he understood that there must be some kind of spell on the parchment. Given Fred and George’s reputation, he decided to avoid touching it until he could be sure it was safe.

 “What’s that?”

“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said George, touching the parchment fondly. It almost seemed like he was caressing it.

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” continued Fred, in their usual habit of finishing each other’s sentences in that way that made it almost seem like they could read each other’s minds, “but we decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it anymore.”

“And what does it do?” Harry asked, still wary of the parchment, because if Fred and George were so fond of it, it meant it must have some pretty amazing qualities. He was curious now.

Fred and George looked at one another, exchanging a knowing look. It was one of those looks that usually meant trouble.

 “Explain, George,” said Fred.

“Well... when we were in our first year, Harry —young, carefree, and innocent—”

Harry snorted, and so did Marco. He doubted those words had _ever_ worked to define Fred and George.

They grinned.

 “Well, more innocent than we are now,” George amended, “we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason—” Fred continued.

“So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual—”

 “Detention—”

“Disembowelment—”

Harry nodded, because he had been subjected to those same threats often. His recent stint of detentions courtesy of Snape were a good example.

“And we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked ‘Confiscated and Highly Dangerous’.”

_Tempting_ , Harry thought, knowing where the story was going. He would have done the same. He grinned.

“Don’t tell me...” he started to say, but he _wanted_ them to tell him right that.

 “Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed... this.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George. “We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn’t have confiscated it.”

“And you know how to work it?” Harry asked, his interest in the parchment growing. If Filch had put it there despite not knowing how to use it, it had to be _good_.

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

“Well, show me,” Harry asked impatiently.

Still smirking, George took his wand out and touched the parchment with the tip.

 “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he stated.

Lines started to appear on the parchment, coming from the place where George’s wand was touching it. They grew, touched and crossed others and formed a complicated shape that took over the entire parchment. _A map_. And, at the top of the map, a few lines of words appeared.

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs_

_Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present_

_THE MARAUDER’S MAP_

 

Harry realized, with a jolt of excitement, that the map was of Hogwarts itself. And it wasn’t just a map, no, it was a very detailed one full of tiny little dots labelled with names. The names of the people inside the castle. And, as he examined it, he realized it showed passageways, some he knew and some he didn’t. Some, even, disappeared from the edge of the map, leading outside of the school.

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of the passages with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four,” he pointed them out, “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it’s caved in —completely blocked. And we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times. And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s hump.”

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” George continued. “We owe them so much.”

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers,” said Fred solemnly.

“Right,” George continued, righting himself a little. “As I have no doubt you can guess, Harry, it took a lot of time—“

“Many hours of well-spent study and processes of trial and error—“

“To figure out the workings of the map.”

Harry nodded, because he could guess it didn’t exactly come with a manual of instructions.

“First of all, when you are done,” Fred explained, “just tap on it again and say ‘Mischief Managed’.”

“It will go back to being a blank piece of parchment,” George finished. Then he looked down at the map, tracing its lines absentmindedly with a finger. “Now, we’ve discovered something very interesting about it.”

“While it shows everybody in the grounds, labelled with their little tiny dot—“

“The same cannot be said about pets.”

“You see, Harry—“

Harry felt tension going up his body, suddenly fearing where this conversation was heading. He looked down at the map again and, sure enough, George’s finger was tracing the lines of the classroom they were in. Where four names could be read.

“Animals don’t show up in the map.”

“Now,” Fred continued, his eyes fixing on Marco, who was looking straight at them, wings tense, “we didn’t notice at first, of course, with so many names, but a name without a surname eventually caught our attention—“

“And once we had figured out that the map didn’t show animals...” George trailed off, and Fred took up again.

“We have been trying to track him down for a year now, but we never managed to corner him.”

“Funny thing, then, that when we were looking for your whereabouts to give you the map, we noticed he was with you.”

“And Dumbledore’s phoenix, no less,” concluded Fred.

Harry looked at Marco, who looked back at him and shrugged with his wings.

A flash of blue fire later, Marco was standing next to him in the classroom, fully human. Fred and George didn’t look nearly as startled as Ron and Hermione had been.

“Not bad, brats,” Marco told them, smiling in what Harry realized was amusement, and maybe a hint of approval. Harry was sure that, despite his mostly calm face, he was impressed by Fred and George’s discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have art for this chapter, courtesy of Red Pirana :D


	25. The marauders

It hadn’t taken Ace too long to convince Fred and George to wait for a full explanation about Marco and everything else until later. They understood Ace’s eagerness to go to Hogsmeade —that was, after all, the reason they had decided to give him the map in the first place— and left after agreeing to meet them that night, after curfew, in one of the empty classrooms from the fourth floor.

Now Marco was walking next to Ace —who was looking down at the map in his hands in fascination— as they advanced through the secret passage that led from a statue on the third floor to the cellar in Honeydukes.

Marco wasn’t sure what to think about the map.

Perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that he thought the map to be a wonderful and potentially very useful tool, but he wasn’t sure what to think of the information its discovery had brought to light. Marco had already known about some of the secret paths that it showed —paths that were protected because either Filch or Albus had known about them as well— but this one and the one Fred and George had said had caved in last year were a novelty to him. Which begged the question of why, if this path was still perfectly usable, it hadn’t been protected with even the simplest of spells.

Marco knew exactly who the Marauders were —he would tell Ace later, once this excursion was over— he had heard James Potter and his friends refer to themselves as such on a handful of occasions, and he even knew which nickname referred to each of them, and that led him to wonder why Lupin hadn’t seen fit to inform Albus about the existence of these passages when he knew that Black knew of them as well. Marco thought it was a very likely possibility that this very path was the one Black had used to enter the castle back in Halloween.

Whatever the reason, Marco had already decided on two things: the first one, that he would stay nearby during Ace’s lessons with Lupin, because he wasn’t sure he could trust him —a detail he would forget to mention to Ace, because Ace would insist that he could take care of himself and, even if it was the case, that didn’t mean Marco wouldn’t worry— and the second was that he would add his own enchanted objects to protect the entrance. Ace would still be able to use it as long as Marco was with him, but Black, without a wand as it was most likely he still was, wouldn’t be able to enter.

 

* * *

 

 

The trip, as it turned out, was mostly uneventful. Oh, it wouldn’t have been had Ace not known already about Black’s relationship to his parents, but, as he did know, things didn’t turn violent.

As soon as they had reached the cellar of Honeydukes, Marco had transformed into his smaller form and slipped out of the shop to scout around the village and make sure Black really wasn’t around, while Ace went to meet his friends.

Ace, Ron and Hermione had left the shop not too long afterwards, loaded with bags of sweets —the fact that they were together and not arguing told Marco that Ace had convinced Hermione that having the map wasn’t such a bad thing— and they had taken a tour around the village, Ron and Hermione showing all places of interest in the village to Ace until the cold was too much and they had decided to go to The Three Broomsticks to drink some butterbeer. Marco hadn’t entered the bar, settling instead below one of its open windows —a spell kept the warmth inside, and apparently, according to the owner, Madam Rosmerta, the open windows gave it a much better air than if they had been closed.

Not long after, Cornelius Fudge, Minerva, Hagrid and Filius entered and sat nearby —Ace had to duck under the table to avoid being spotted— and had a very indiscreet conversation with Madam Rosmerta about Sirius Black and everything surrounding the Potters’ deaths, a conversation very easily overheard that would have sent Ace on a violent rage had Marco not already told him everything.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ace,” Marco called him as soon as they were back in the tunnel.

Ace had been somewhat sullen since they had overheard the conversation back at The Three Broomsticks —it was why they had decided it would be best for them to return to the school early, that and Hermione had been worried that with so many important figures at the village Ace would be caught. Marco had no doubt he was thinking about Black and everything it was obvious he wasn’t supposed to know about him.

Marco decided that, now that the excursion to Hogsmeade was over, it was a good time to tell Ace about what he had realized earlier.

“Yeah?” Ace asked. He had his wand raised before him and lit to provide some light in the dark tunnel.

“The Marauders were your father and his friends,” Marco said without preamble.

Ace stopped in his tracks and stared at him for a few seconds. Marco stopped as well.

“ _Really_?”

Marco nodded.

“Yes. I hadn’t given it much thought, but I overheard them use some of the nicknames back when they were in school. I remembered when I saw the map.”

“Huh.” Ace started to walk again, and so did Marco. “Do you… do you know which one was my dad?”

“Prongs,” Marco answered immediately. Black had had a thing for calling James Potter by his nickname in the last few years of school.

“You know where the names came from?”

Marco shook his head.

“No idea, sorry.” He had never given it much thought, students came up with nicknames for one another all the time and he didn’t generally care unless he had taken an interest in a student for any reason, like the second year Ravenclaw girl people called Loony Lovegood as an insult. The only name Marco could guess the origin of was Moony, but he didn’t know where the others had originated.

They walked in silence for a while before Ace spoke again, in a much more sullen voice this time.

“Black was one of them, wasn’t he?”

“Padfoot,” Marco confirmed with a nod.

Ace frowned.

“And the others?”

 “Moony was Remus Lupin, and Wormtail was Peter Pettigrew.”

“Pettigrew was the guy Black killed?” Ace asked, even though he had heard it not even an hour ago. Marco nodded. “What sort of guy was he?”

“Well…” Marco had to pause to think. Peter Pettigrew had never stood out in any way, he had been one of those people whose presence, literal and metaphorically, blended in the background and the mass of other presences around them. He had barely been noticeable amongst his much stronger friends. “He was a pretty average kid,” Marco settled for saying, unable to come up with a kinder way of putting it. “Honestly, I would never have imagined he’d do what he did.”

But, Marco guessed, he must have been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Fred interrupted the tale, although it was mostly over by then. “So you’re saying you two were pirates?” The gleam in his and George’s eyes made it clear they didn’t exactly have a problem with that notion.

“Yeah,” Harry, sitting on a desk with his legs dangling in the air, answered with a grin. He couldn’t help it, his past pirate life was one of his greatest prides.

Fred and George looked at one another. Harry counted it as a strange sort of victory that they had to do that, because they usually seemed to know what the other was thinking without so much as a sideways glance.

“That explains a lot,” George said.

“It does,” Fred agreed, nodding sagely.

“Explains what?” Harry asked, deciding it would take too long to try to figure out what went on in their silent conversation.

“Simple, my dear pirate,” George started, and suddenly Harry knew there would be a lot of references to that from these two from now on. He couldn’t say he minded.

“You’ve never-“

“-seemed to care-“

“-about what the school thought,” they said in unison.

“Not even with that whole Heir of Slytherin thing last year,” George said.

“Not much, anyway,” Fred added, because Harry _had_ been annoyed about that mess, even if it wasn’t because of the suspicion itself.

Harry shrugged.

“I’ve been called much worse than anything anyone here can come up with.” Things he _wasn’t_ going to think about in any depth, because this might be another life, but the whole Roger’s son affair was still a touchy subject.

“Fair enough,” Fred said, nodding again.

“So, what now?” George asked.

“Now?” Harry asked back, tilting his head. “Nothing, you keep silent about it.”

“Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry…” Fred tsked.

“We can’t do that,” George continued.

“…What?”

“You see, we’ve just learned-“

“-that our youngest-“

“-most innocent-“

“-little brother and sister-“

“-have been keeping-“

“-a big secret from us,” they both finished, and Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for Ron and Ginny. There was no way these two would let that slip.

“Just don’t do any permanent harm.”

“No promises,” said Fred and George, again at the same time, and Harry scoffed.

“But we have a question,” added George, turning to Marco, who had stayed silent ever since he finished his part of the story.

“Oh, yes. We’ve been thinking, today.” That couldn’t be good. “And our dear Harry here insisted he wasn’t the one behind the pranks last year.”

Harry scoffed, because _of course_ that was what they would focus on. Marco just smirked at them, and then added.

“Don’t forget this year.”

“ _That_ was you too?” George asked, eyes sparkling and voice delighted.

Marco shrugged and nodded.

“Before you two start asking for details,” Marco said, probably being right, “I need your help with something.”

“Oh?” Fred and George looked at one another again. “With what?” And it was still creepy whenever they spoke at the same time.

“Some wards for the passage in the third floor.” Before they could protest, and it looked like that was their intention, Marco added. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that Black could know about it?” Headshakes. Marco sighed, exasperated. “Well, he does. He’s one of the Marauders.”

“Oh.”

“Ooops.”

And that was how Marco, Fred and George spent the last night before the Christmas holidays trying to set up some guards that would let them, Harry, Ron and Hermione still use the passage. While observing them, Harry learned that they had become very proficient at guards as a side effect of a series of experiments to develop their own prank materials, that still were at a very early stage of testing. Harry wasn’t sure whether he was more apprehensive or curious about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Early the next morning, the students left to board the Hogwarts Express, and Harry was left as the only Gryffindor in the entire tower. As a consequence, he wasn’t surprised when Marco, a bag held in one talon, showed up outside of one of the common room windows and transformed once inside. The only portrait in Gryffindor Tower was the Fat Lady at the entrance of the common room and so, as long as he didn’t enter through there in his human form, he could be at the tower as much as he wanted.

Harry wasn’t very pleased when he saw the small closed box in the bag. Marco had decided his skills with a lockpick were good enough last week, which meant they were moving on to something else now.

“I’m not using a hair pin,” Harry said. There was no way he would carry one of those around if he could prevent it.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll use this,” Marco answered, pulling a paper clip from of the pockets of his coat.

Harry groaned. Marco just gave him the clip and sat on one of the comfy armchairs next to the fireplace.

 

* * *

 

 

It took Harry almost until lunch time, but he managed to convince Marco to drop the lesson and just go out for a while after breaking his fifth paper clip. Harry suggested they went to visit Hagrid, because he hadn’t seen him much out of classes lately and he knew Marco was friends with him too.

The castle, like it had happened the last two years, was almost eerily deserted, and they encountered no one on their way out. It felt nice, Harry thought, to be able to move freely around the castle without worrying about attracting attention, even if it was with Marco in his smaller phoenix form flying next to him.

It was snowing, although not too much, and the grounds were covered in white. Harry was sure that, had the other students been here, there would be at least one massive snow battle going on somewhere.

When they reached the door to Hagrid’s cabin, Harry knocked on it, but Hagrid didn’t come immediately as he usually did.

“Is he out?” he asked turning to Marco, who shook his head. Raising his hand, he knocked again. “Hagrid?” he called. “You in there? It’s me, Harry.”

He heard Hagrid’s heavy footsteps approach before the door opened slowly. Harry blinked. Hagrid’s eyes were red, puffy and there were tears on his face. He was clutching what looked like a tablecloth in his right hand.

“Yeh’ve heard?” he bellowed, and then Harry was crushed into Hagrid’s arms.

“Uh…” Harry tried, unsure of what to say. Next to them, Marco patted Hagrid’s shoulder with a wing, and finally Harry found some words. “Hagrid? What happened?” He moved carefully away from Hagrid’s arms —something he wouldn’t have been able to do if it wasn’t for his training and unusual strength— and steered his friend into the cabin and to one of the huge chairs. Behind them, Marco kicked the door shut.

Hagrid didn’t answer. He resumed his sobbing and blew his nose on the tablecloth.

“What’s that?” Harry asked when he spotted a slightly crumbled official-looking letter on the table. Instead of answering, Hagrid pushed the letter at him. Marco landed on Harry’s shoulder to read with him.

_Dear Mr. Hagrid,_

_Further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on a student in your class, we have accepted the assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no responsibility for the regrettable incident._

_However, we must register our concern about the hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures._

_The hearing will take place on April 20th, and we ask you to present yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee’s offices in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated._

_Yours in fellowship..._

A list of names Harry ignored followed.

This sounded bad.

“This looks bad,” he said out loud, unsure of what else to say. Ron and Hermione would argue that it hadn’t been Buckbeak’s fault and that this was unfair or something like that, but Harry knew just too well that the world wasn’t fair, and he could easily see a tribunal sentencing Buckbeak because Lucius Malfoy knew how to spin a story and intimidate people.

Hagrid’s sobbing redoubled in intensity, and Harry, not knowing what else to do, looked at Marco and mouthed ‘booze?’ Marco pointed instead at the large kettle, and Harry agreed it was probably a good idea to mix the alcohol with something else, because this was the sort of situation where someone would drink too fast and he didn’t want Hagrid to get drunk enough to hurt himself.

“Listen, Hagrid,” he started as he walked up to the kettle, reaching out to where he knew Hagrid kept the tea. The volume of the sobs lowered and he knew he had Hagrid’s attention. “I know this isn’t fair, it wasn’t Buckbeak’s fault and I like him,” he said, because he figured Hagrid needed to hear someone was on his side, “but we’ll help, okay? Ron, Hermione and me.” And Marco, but he didn’t say that. “I’ll write to them and we’ll look into cases like this. We’ll find a way out.”

He wasn’t sure when he had become mature enough to take something like this so calmly —or at least to act calmly outwardly because he very much wanted to punch Lucius Malfoy in the gut— but he realized that the last thing Hagrid needed was for Harry to lose his cool as well.

“Thanks, Harry, but ‘at won’ work. Yeh don’ know them gargoyles at the Committee fer the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures!” Hagrid blew his nose again. “They’ve got it in fer interestin’ creatures!”

A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid’s cabin made Harry turn around. He had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed Buckbeak was lying in the corner, eating something raw and bloody.

“I couldn’ leave him tied up out there in the snow! All on his own! At Christmas.”

“Of course not,” Harry agreed. Buckbeak really wasn’t bad, he was probably Hagrid’s most harmless pet, and he certainly didn’t deserve whatever the Committee would do if Malfoy got his way.

The kettle whistled —it had been quick, it most likely was enchanted— and Harry filled half of one of Hagrid’s large cups. He looked to Marco, who pointed a cabinet overhead. Harry opened it, pulled out a bottle of firewhiskey and filled the cup. He brought it to Hagrid, who, unsurprisingly, downed it in a single swallow, and went for the kettle and the bottle to refill it.

“We’re not just giving up because they’re monsters,” Harry assured once Hagrid had finished his second cup.

Hagrid, who had calmed somewhat, burst back into tears.

 

* * *

 

 

The first order of business when they returned to the empty common room was to write letters to Ron and Hermione informing them of the situation with Buckbeak and telling them Harry had promised to help Hagrid. He said he and Marco would start researching the library during the holidays —he was sure Hermione would be surprised— and asked them for help once they returned. Once the letters were done, he sent Stefan out to deliver them and headed for the library, Marco deciding to make an appearance in Dumbledore’s office while Harry got some books.

Madam Pince looked at him suspiciously when Harry dropped ten volumes on her desk to check out, but he smiled his most innocent smile and commented they were for Care of Magical Creatures homework.

Once he was back in the common room and Marco returned, they started to look through previous cases of trials against magical creatures.

It wasn’t a nice read.

“Do they _ever_ absolve any creature?” Harry asked in frustration after the twentieth death sentence he read about.

“…Not usually,” Marco admitted. “Hagrid wasn’t exaggerating, the people in that committee _are_ monsters.”

“Great.”

By dinnertime, the only case they had found where the creature hadn’t been executed was one where a manticore had killed someone, but it had been because no one had dared to approach it to kill it.

It was discouraging.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was distracted.

It was understandable, of course, given the fact that he had spent yesterday afternoon and most of today reading dusty old books about trials on magical creatures that, in most cases, had ended in pretty gruesome ways for the creatures. Still, he was growing annoyed that he couldn’t take the wallet out of the pocket of the walking mannequin covered in bells that the Room of Requirement provided for these practices without too many bells chiming.

They weren’t on the Moby Dick, instead having chosen a recreation of a random street in London, and Marco was sitting on a bench, reading one of the aforementioned dusty tomes while adding some criticism here and there to Harry’s own mental berating.

Ron and Hermione’s responses had arrived yesterday, and they both had been indignant at the news of the trial that didn’t look like it would be so much a trial as a straightforward order of execution —and if that reminded Harry too much of the World Government’s procedures, that was just another reason for him to be angry. Even Ron had been willing to do research on it, despite how much he hated to spend time in the library.

—

Harry woke up early on Christmas morning and grinned at the pile of presents at the bottom of his bed, but he didn’t move to open it. No, this year his plans were a little different than the previous ones, and so Harry sat impatiently on his own bed until Marco showed up at the window not much later. He rushed to open it and close it again behind Marco —it was _cold_ outside. Marco transformed and landed in the middle of the room.

Harry grinned.

“So, presents?”

Opening presents with Marco reminded him of the two birthdays he had celebrated with the Whitebeard Pirates. Back then he would sit on the floor, surrounded by people, and pour through the different presents —most of which were jokes of some sort, because they were that mature. Today it was only Marco, but they sat together on the floor, surrounded by Harry’s sizable pile of presents, as he gleefully went through them. He had offered Marco to help open them, but he had declined, saying they were his presents.

Mostly, anyway.

One of the first packages that had caught his attention was rectangular, flat and somewhat thick, and had a note stuck to the top of it with Hermione’s handwriting scrawled on it.

_For Harry and Marco. Open last._

They were understandably curious, but had decided to follow Hermione’s instructions and placed the package —most likely a book— to one side.

Ron had sent a set of wizard chess, adding a cheeky note that only said _you could use the practice_. Harry laughed, agreeing that yes, he was a disastrous chess player. Marco had offered to practice with him if he wanted, and Harry remembered that time back in first year when he had tried to teach phoenix Marco to play chess and had got his ass handed over to him.

“You could play with Ron. He could use the challenge,” he suggested, because Ron could easily beat almost everyone in Gryffindor at chess.

He had a new sweater and some sweets from Mrs. Weasley, which they nibbled on as they went through the rest of the presents. This year there was nothing from Hagrid, and Harry suspected he had forgotten to send the presents with everything that was happening to him. The Dursleys hadn’t bothered to send anything this year. They were probably still seething over the incident with Marge, and already knew Harry couldn’t go live anywhere else, so they didn’t even bother to tell him to see if he could spend the summer away.

Refusing to dwell on such depressing thoughts on Christmas morning, Harry grabbed a small soft package wrapped in bright blue paper and handed it to Marco. He just grinned when Marco raised his eyebrows in question and took the next package, a small one wrapped in hideous purple paper with green gnomes moving through it that Harry guessed was from Marco, because that horrible paper screamed Dumbledore’s name.

He wasn’t wrong, and when he opened the package he was faced with a very familiar orange belt. He grinned.

“The teachers are going to _hate_ this,” he announced happily, because he had decided right away that he was going to add it to his uniform.

“It’s going to clash horribly with your Gryffindor tie,” Marco pointed out, smiling with some amusement, and Harry shrugged.

“Aren’t you opening your present?”

Marco did, and Harry grinned when the blue sash came into view. When Marco looked at him, he shrugged again.

“You aren’t the only one allowed to reproduce old clothes. I asked Madam Malkin to add some spells so it won’t rip easily or anything.”

After that, there were two presents left, Hermione’s and a long, thin package that reminded Harry of a similar one he had received back in first year.

“You can’t be serious,” he muttered, reaching for it and tearing the paper off.

It was a broom, as he had half expected, but what he hadn’t expected was for it to be a _Firebolt_. There was no note.

He looked up at Marco, who shook his head.

“It’s not from me, I would’ve asked you before buying it.”

“Then who?” Harry asked, looking more closely in search of a note that really wasn’t there. “I’m pretty sure McGonagall gave me my Nimbus Two Thousand, could be her again?”

“I don’t think so. This is too expensive for Minerva.” Marco reached out and took the Firebolt, turning it over in his hands as if inspecting it.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking that it’s not cursed.”

“Cursed?” Harry frowned. “What, you think it might be Black? He’s a wanted criminal.”

Marco shrugged.

“Goblins don’t care what the Ministry considers you as long as you don’t mess with them. But it’s clean, there’s nothing wrong.” He handed it back to Harry, who took it reverently.

“I have to tell Ron about this,” he breathed out.

“Maybe we should open Hermione’s present first,” Marco suggested, and Harry had to agree, reluctantly placing his new broom on his bed.

He had been wrong, it wasn’t a book. It was a thick black folder, and when they opened it a pile of papers tumbled out. Brown, parchment-like papers with pictures and large words on them.

They were the wanted posters Hermione had promised to copy back on Marco’s birthday.

Harry stared at them, and didn’t react until Marco reached out and grabbed one of the papers. He held it and stared at it, eyes so intent on the picture that Harry was sure he wouldn’t react even if he tried to speak to him.

He looked over Marco’s shoulder and saw it was Pops’ first wanted poster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, we have another piece of art from Red Pirana :D This one isn't a scene proper, but it's inspired by this chapter and the conversation that followed :)


	26. The firebolt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so... sorry about the delay. Life got out of hand and updating anything was last in my mind, but here we go.

Harry had left Marco in the bedroom after a while and gone to write letters for Ron and Hermione in the common room, realizing that Marco probably needed some time alone with whatever memories were coming back to him, memories that, Harry suspected, were from far before he had joined the crew.

By the time he returned to the bedroom after sending Stefan out with the letters Marco was sitting on the floor, back resting against Harry’s bed, and a different wanted poster on his hands.

Harry approached and sat on the bed behind him, seeing the poster was one of Thatch, much younger than he had ever known him, where he appeared with his hair green.

“You know, I never got around to asking about that one.”

He couldn’t see Marco’s face from where he was, but wouldn’t be surprised if he had smiled then.

“Thatch had accidentally, or so he claimed, dropped Izo’s make up foundation on the sink, and Izo didn’t have any more left. We’re not sure where he got it, but he found green hair dye and dyed Thatch’s hair during the night, a couple of days before we had a run in with the marines, and they snapped a picture of Thatch’s new look to update his wanted poster. They returned to the previous one after our next encounter, when Thatch’s hair was back to normal, but Izo didn’t let him forget this, and hung a copy of the poster on a wall. That’s the origin of the bounties’ wall, too. Before that we kept them in a drawer.

 

* * *

 

 

Errol, Ron’s family owl, crashed against the closed window of the Gryffindor third year boys’ bedroom, and his ability to wobbly hold himself up in the air was the only thing that prevented him from falling to his death as Harry hurried to open the window and let him in. Errol dropped the letter on the floor and managed to fly to Ron’s bed before falling, luckily on the mattress.

“They really need to retire him from long flights,” Harry commented as he bent down to pick up the letter. “I’ve got some owl treats in my trunk. A blue paper bag.”

Marco turned on the floor and knelt up to open Harry’s trunk —which might or might not be in a state bad enough to be considered a disaster area— and dug around until he found the owl treats. As he fed a couple to Errol, Harry read Ron’s letter.

It was basically a long winded and excited babble where Ron tried to guess who could have sent him the broom, basically swooned over it and gleefully commented on how the Slytherin team, and particularly Malfoy, would react when they saw it. At that point there were a couple of comments from Fred and George adding they couldn’t wait to see that, as well as the broom in action.

“Ron thinks it might have been Dumbledore who gave me the broom,” Harry commented, and Marco snorted.

“Doubt it. He likes you, but if he’d bought you something like that I would know. He wouldn’t shut up about it when he sent you the cloak.”

“He also thinks it might have been Lupin,” Harry suggested with amusement. Lupin might like him, and Harry liked the man too, but he wouldn’t have been able to buy that broom even if he sold all his possessions.

Stefan wasn’t back yet, which meant she was probably waiting for Hermione to give her a reply. Knowing her, it would be a worried letter full of questions. Harry had expected it, and so he had stressed that Marco had checked the broom for curses to both his friends, but mostly to Hermione.

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas lunch was an interesting affair, and by interesting Marco meant that Albus earned himself a place back into the no sweets squad for the next two weeks after tricking Severus into a vulture hat like the one from Neville Longbottom’s boggart, Ace picked up on the fact that Lupin was sick again and Severus had made him a potion —Marco knew that Hermione had figured out Lupin’s secret a while ago, and he wondered if Ace would do it eventually— and Trelawney showed up, made a fool out of herself with her theatrics as usual and predicted a terrible disgrace in Ace’s near future.

Ace had been the first to leave the Great Hall once the food was gone, ignoring Trelawney’s warnings about his dire future, and Marco had decided to wait a while. He was perched on the back of Severus’ chair, much to Severus’ not entirely heartfelt annoyance, and had been bugging both him and Albus throughout the meal to get some food, pointing with his beak at what he wanted exactly. It was a good thing that Ace had been sitting far from them, or there wouldn’t have been so much food to choose from. The two first years sitting next to Ace had barely eaten, having spent most of their meal gaping in horror at Ace’s table manners. The fifth year Slytherin had just huffed derisively and turned his back on Ace.

The fact that nobody had admonished Ace for his manners proved just how every staff member had already accepted the fact that trying to get Ace to eat in a more civilized way was an exercise in futility.

Marco waited until Albus left the table and followed him out, snatching the bag of sweets he had been carrying out of his hand as soon as Albus took it out to eat one. He flew away, and a look from farther away proved that Albus looked as close to annoyed as he got when there wasn’t any serious situation.

He could have patted himself on the back.

Marco followed Ace’s presence, which strangely enough wasn’t at the common room, where they had agreed to meet to continue looking through some more books on trials on magical creatures, and instead was on the grounds. Marco found him firing destructive spells, mostly explosive ones, at the terrain, destroying rocks and trees alike and blowing holes on the earth.

“What happened?” Marco asked as soon as he was back in his human form.

Ace barely glanced in his direction before throwing an _incendio_ at an unsuspecting bush that burst into flames, quickly followed by a _bombarda_ at the tree right behind it. The tree exploded.

“Ace,” Marco called him, and this time Ace threw a crumbled piece of parchment at him before marching off towards the lake. Water flew off in every direction when the next spell landed in the centre of the lake. It was oddly reminiscent of the effects of fishman karate.

Deciding that, whatever had happened, Ace needed to blow some steam off before he could have a somewhat civilised conversation, Marco sat on the remnants of a rock and carefully stretched the parchment on his knee. It was a letter, and he easily identified Hermione’s tidy handwriting after having read so many letters from her.

He wasn’t even halfway through the letter and he could already understand why Ace had gone homicidal on their surroundings.

 

* * *

 

 

Saying that Hermione was nervous would be a very serious understatement. Her parents had been giving her strange looks ever since the Christmas cheer had suddenly left her halfway through the morning, after reading Harry’s letter.

She knew he would be angry, _furious_ most likely, but she really had seen no other option. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Marco, not really, but the concept of haki, even after having seen some of it in action, was a hard one to accept as truth. Harry’s new Firebolt was suspicious however you looked at it, and with Sirius Black on the loose he was the most likely sender. She hoped Marco was right in saying the broom hadn’t been tampered with, but Hermione would feel much more reassured if she knew that experienced wizards had tested it instead of simply trusting a power she had never heard of until the end of her previous school year, and of which she had been unable to find even a single mention ever since in any book she had checked.

That was why, once she had written her letters to Professor McGonagall and Harry —she had apologized, to both Harry and Marco, and stressed how worried she was about Harry’s safety and how she had only his best interests at heart— she had asked Stefan to deliver them both to Professor McGonagall. She had asked her to give Harry the letter when she took the broom.

She was startled when she heard tapping on her window, and turned to see Stefan there, carrying a letter. That was unexpected. She hadn’t thought Harry would be calm enough to even write until at least tomorrow. As she approached the window, she checked that the letter wasn’t in fact the telling red of a howler and opened to let Stefan in.

Stefan dropped the letter on her desk and left. She obviously wasn’t expected to send a response.

Swallowing, she approached her desk and cautiously picked the letter up.

As soon as she opened it, she recognized the handwriting and understood that, after all, Harry hadn’t been calm enough to write a letter. She swallowed again. Marco had just as much reason, if not more, to be angry with her now.

_Hermione,_

_That was the stupidest move you could have made._

Despite her apprehension and feelings of guilt, she bristled a little at that. It hadn’t been stupid, it had been a perfectly reasonable reaction to a very dubious object that could easily pose a threat to her friend. Breathing deeply, she continued to read.

_Ace is livid at you. He’s spent the entire afternoon blowing things up on the grounds. I’d suggest you don’t write to him for the remainder of the holidays._

Hermione sighed. She had expected as much, but it still hurt to have confirmation that Harry had taken her actions so badly.

_As for me, I’ll admit I’m offended. I have never been wrong on my scans of objects to detect spells, and I don’t like to have my skills doubted like that. But I understand._

Hermione blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

_You don’t know haki past what we’ve told you, and it probably sounds crazy. And you don’t know me that much either, so it makes sense you don’t trust me. I just hope you do once you see I’m right._

_Ace wrote to Ron, and Ron wrote back. He’s as angry as Ace, if not even more, so you should probably expect a letter from him, if it’s not arrived already._

_I know you’re worried, but next time you should try talking to Ace instead of going behind his back like this._

_Marco_

_P.S.: Thank you for your present, we really liked it._

Hermione had barely finished reading the letter when Errol crashed through her open window. He had a red envelope tied to his leg.

 

* * *

 

 

Ace had been so tired after his destructive spree that he had fallen asleep as soon as his head had touched his pillow. Marco hadn’t wanted to leave him alone in that state, and so he had occupied Ron’s bed for the night. He hadn’t bothered to turn back into his bird form, because the only ones who would come in here were the house elves —and, if someone else did, Marco would wake up before they entered the room anyway. The elves had realized Marco wasn’t just a phoenix from the start, but they understood that he didn’t pose a threat to the school, that he in fact helped, and had promised to keep his secret unless the Headmaster of the school asked them directly about him. Because whoever was Headmaster was the school’s house elves’ master, and they could not disobey a direct order from their master.

When he woke up in the morning, Ace was in the same bad mood that he had been the previous night. He dragged himself out of bed and started to tug the clothes he had fallen asleep in off himself with forceful movements. He didn’t say a word, and neither did Marco. The scene was familiar to him, as he had seen Ace do something similar once after one of his murder attempts had landed him in a barrel of rum and Thatch had kicked him overboard while he tried to regain his balance to prevent him from using his powers and setting the entire ship on fire. Ace had stomped off as soon as Namur had fished him out of the water, and Marco, worried that he would do something stupid, had followed him.

He had found Ace in an empty storeroom —a bundle of blankets on the ground signalling he had been sleeping there— tearing his drenched clothes off. It had been a problematic sight.

“See something you like, old man?” Ace’s words snapped him out of his thoughts and Marco focused on the here and now again.

“Not really. You’re still missing a lot of pounds of muscle and almost a foot of height.”

“Then what’s with that face?” Ace snapped, what might have been the beginnings of a playful mood vanished.

“Nothing. I was just... reminiscing,” Marco answered with a grin, and Ace scoffed.

“Pervert.”

Ace’s head disappeared under the sweater Molly Weasley had sent for him as he put it on.

“I’m not sure you can accuse me of that. Tell me, have you already remembered that time you gave me a blowjob up in the crow's nest in the middle of the morning?” Judging by Ace’s incredulous and very red face, he hadn’t. Marco had remembered it a couple of days ago, precisely because he had been lounging at said crow's nest himself. He smirked. “Pity. I think you’ll like that one.”

Ace immediately frowned and turned his back on Marco. The reaction told him that, even though he was still very obviously angry, Ace had no longer felt the destructive urge that had possessed him yesterday.

“You should talk to Hermione, you know.”

“Like hell,” Ace growled, stomping over to the boots Marco had taken off him last night after he had fallen asleep.

“She’s just worried about you.”

“She went behind my back,” Ace started, shoving his right foot into the boot, “got my Firebolt confiscated,” the left foot followed, “and _doubted you_!” Ace stood up and glared at Marco.

Marco sighed. Ace might be done with the violence, but he was in no way ready to stop and think.

 

* * *

 

 

_Officially, if Ace caught him, Marco was making sure he didn’t destroy anything he shouldn’t destroy. In truth, Marco had followed him to make sure he was alright, because today he was angrier than ever. For the last three weeks or so, Ace’s already horrible temper had been souring and shortening what seemed to be every hour, and things had reached a point that most of the crew didn’t dare joke with him as they had done at first._

_Ace stormed into the storeroom that the entire crew pretended not knowing he slept in —the blankets on the floor confirmed what had been accepted as fact already— and slammed the door shut with so much strength that it broke through the frame and rebounded against the wall, leaving the entrance open. Ace didn’t seem to care about it, busy as he was pulling his drenched shirt off himself. Marco couldn’t help himself, not that he would have anyway, when his eyes travelled up and down the exposed back. He was used to seeing Ace’s chest, as he never bothered to close his shirt, but there was something different about seeing his whole torso bare. From day one, Marco had agreed with the rest of the crew that it was a pity that Ace refused so vehemently to join them, although he had some additional reasons for that besides the ones shared by the rest._

_He had become distracted at some point, because he barely reacted in time to dodge the flaming kick aimed at his face._

_“What the hell are you doing here?!” Ace yelled at him, throwing a series of punches that Marco avoided as well._

_Not in the mood for a fight, Marco stopped Ace by the expedient method of summoning his own flames and tackling him to the ground, ignoring Ace’s normally deadly fire. It helped that he was much faster than Ace, too._

_“What the-?! GET OFF!!” Ace yelled again, and, ignoring him, Marco sat on top of his chest._

_“Calm down, I’m not here to fight.”_

_“Then what do you want?!” Ace attempted to punch him, but Marco caught his hand in the air. He had hurt himself in the fall after his latest failure, and he had also been growing steadily more tired as time passed —Marco was sure Ace didn’t eat enough for the monstrous appetite he suspected he had— so holding him down proved far easier than it should have been._

_“I’m just checking you don’t do anything stupid. Aren’t you tired of this yet?” Ace’s only reply was to glare at him. “Seriously, kid, nobody here wants you hurt. We like you.” At this, he brushed his fingers over the wrist he was holding._

_Ace jerked his hand back, his frown deepening._

_“Get the fuck off me.”_

_Marco did, moving instead to kneel next to him._

_“Are you done being an idiot for the day? You should eat and sleep a little.”_

_Ace glared at him as he sat up, and he almost managed to hide the grimace that followed the movement. Belatedly, Marco realized that Ace had landed on his back when he had crashed into the barrel, and now Marco had thrown him on his back again, using haki, and had then sat on him, again using haki, which had probably worsened it._

_He stood up._

_“Get some new clothes,” he glanced at the pile of blankets and the few garments he could see strewn around, “or whatever you’ve got. I’ll bring you food.”_

_“I don’t want your pity,” Ace mumbled, jumping to his feet._

_“Oh, it’s not pity.” At Ace’s angry glare, Marco decided to make a risky move. “I’m just trying to get into your pants. I hear food is a good way.”_

_He left Ace spluttering as he headed for the kitchen._

_There was something special about throwing someone off like that without even needing to say a single lie._

* * *

 

 

Once the brunt of his bad mood was over, Harry poured all his energy into trying to help Hagrid with Buckbeak’s trial. Marco was helping, and, even though Harry knew he still disapproved of his reaction, he hadn’t brought the topic of Hermione up again. The only reason Harry hadn’t sent her a howler with a good piece of his mind was because he didn’t know how to create one, he knew asking Marco was useless, and he didn’t even know where to start looking in the library for the instructions on how to make one.

Training also took up a good portion of his time, and he put all his energy into it. Marco must have noticed, because he wasn’t holding back as much as he usually did, and had even shoved a jar with some disgustingly smelling cream for his bruises after Harry had gone through a wooden wall. Marco had told him to use it every night from now on, stating that they would up the level of the training. Harry had wanted to refuse, because he hadn’t needed something like that in his other life, but he had held back because he understood the only reason Marco was telling him to use it was the risk of someone who wasn’t in on the secret spotting the evidence of the harsher training. That wall had left some ugly bruises that couldn’t be brushed off as a result from a bad Quidditch training session.

Before he knew it, New Year had passed and the students returned to the school. Harry was glad to see Ron and his other classmates, but he regretted that his training sessions would be reduced back to their normal schedule. That, and Marco would no longer sleep in the dorm with him.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry and Ron had ignored her. First it had been Ron in the Hogwarts Express, he had passed by her compartment, looked inside, seen her and walked away. Once in the school, she had seen him greet Harry, and the two had walked away without even looking in her direction. Hermione, hurt by that reaction, had decided to find a place to sit at the end of the Gryffindor table, away from their usual spot. She had expected Harry to yell at her, and had hoped to be able to take the opportunity to try to reason with him, to get her point across, but she couldn’t explain herself if he refused to acknowledge her presence.

As she walked to her chosen sitting place, her eyes travelled over the staff table and found Marco perched on the Headmaster’s chair. Before their eyes could met, Hermione ducked her head.

She really hadn’t meant to offend him.

 

* * *

 

 

Oliver Wood had asked Harry if he had found a broom the night the students had returned, and confessing about the Firebolt and the fate that had befallen it had fuelled Harry’s bad mood all over again. Only the fact that Hermione wasn’t in the common room at the moment had prevented him from exploding, and he had marched up to the dorm intent on sleeping his mood away.

The next morning, with the realization that he had Defence Against the Dark Arts, he was in a considerably less volatile mood. The holidays had passed, an that meant that Lupin would teach him how to defend himself from the dementors. That was something he had been looking forward to. He approached Lupin at the end of the class, and they agreed to meet Thursday evening in the History of Magic class. That took out a few more hours of training with Marco from his schedule, but it was a sacrifice worth making, something both Harry and Marco agreed on.

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday arrived with no remarkable change to Harry’s life, and he went to the History of Magic classroom at the agreed time —Marco would be outside the window, Harry knew. It was probably the first time he was eager to be in that room. There, Lupin had gotten hold of a boggart that they would use for practice purposes. As Lupin explained, it would recreate the effects of a dementor to some extent.

First of all, Lupin explained the spell Harry would need, the Patronus Charm, which apparently was very advanced magic that many adults never mastered in their entire lives. That only made Harry even more determined to master it.

His first attempt at the charm, without the boggart-dementor, summoned a strange silver mist. Once Lupin was convinced that he had grasped the general idea of the charm, they moved on to the boggart.

After some deliberation with himself, he had decided to go with the memory of the day he discovered he was a wizard, remembering how happy he had felt at the knowledge that his parents hadn’t been what the Dursleys had always told him and that _he was_ _leaving the Dursleys_.

Harry gripped his want tightly and concentrated on the moment Hagrid had told him he was a wizard, on how angry Hagrid had been when he discovered the lies he had been told about his parents.

Lupin opened the lid of the case that contained the boggart, and a dementor started to slowly emerge out of it. As the cold that accompanied the dementor settled over the room, Harry raised his want, his mind firmly holding onto the joy of the day he learned that _he was a wizard_ and yelled the incantation.

“Expecto patronum!” Unsure of whether or not it was working, he repeated it. “Expecto patronum! Expecto—”

The classroom began to fade around him.

_“Ace, are you going to die...? No, you promised... You said you wouldn’t die!!”_

_“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I’ll do anything —”_

_“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”_

_“Sabo is dead!!”_

“Harry!”

Harry sat up suddenly. He was on the classroom’s floor drenched in sweat, his want still clenched in a deathly grip in his hand.

He had failed.

 “Are you all right?” Lupin asaked him.

“Yes, fine,” Harry answered, pushing himself to his feet.

“Here.” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if you had.”

Harry didn’t answer, instead stuffing the chocolate whole frog in his mouth in annoyance. Maybe a normal thirteen year old wouldn’t been able to do that, but he was no normal thirteen year old, and failure _stung_.

“Are you sure you are alright?” Lupin insisted, and Harry looked at him. Maybe he couldn’t tell him everything, but it might help to get some of it out of his chest.

“Yes. It’s just... I heard her. My mother. And Voldemort.”

Lupin paled.

“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than understand—”

“No!” Harry exclaimed. “I do. Let’s continue. I just need another memory.”

“All right,” said Lupin, heading back to the boggart. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He needed a happy memory. Thinking of happiness brought Luffy’s face to his mind. Luffy had always been so happy, like that face-splitting grin he had had on his wanted poster. Harry smiled softly. He remembered the day the poster had come out. He had been so happy for his brother that he had been unable to keep it to himself. He had pestered anybody he could catch in the crew, showing them the bounty poster and telling them about Luffy until they managed to escape him. He had annoyed them so much that Izo had demanded Marco to drag him to their cabin and not let him out until that excess energy was out of him. Marco had taken it very seriously to tire him too much to be annoying.

A good memory found, Harry nodded to Lupin and readied himself.

He had been really happy when he had seen that wanted poster. Luffy had always been a crazy idiot, and Ace had had a lot of fun trying to picture what sort of messes he had been into that had earned him a thirty million bounty in East Blue of all places.

The dementor’s cloaked head appeared. Harry raised his arms, ready to cast as soon as it was all outside.

It had probably been some smaller scale version of what the idiot had done at Enies Lobby. Ace had had a good laugh when he had seen that, once he had been done panicking about his insane little brother.

The skeletal hand of the dementor grabbed the edge of the space where the boggart had been, as if helping itself to get out more easily. The temperature dropped.

His insane little brother that had charged into fucking Impel Down for him.

_Luffy was here. Luffy was going to die, and it was all Ace’s fault._

Harry’s arm went limp.

_“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”_

The wand fell to the floor and rolled away, unnoticed.

_“This is my final captain’s order!!”_

Everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you might have noticed, I've modified the memories Harry uses for the Patronus. As Ace, he has a different perspective, and I always found it dumb that his first choice would be the first time he flew on a broom, or the second one being winning the house cup, so I skipped those two.
> 
> And we have some more art by Red Pirana :D Training session this time ^^  
> 


	27. Mistrust

After Harry had fainted without even attempting to cast the spell, Lupin had called the session off, and hadn’t accepted Harry’s complaints, sending him off after telling him to find a better memory for next week and giving him a bag of chocolate frogs.

Harry didn’t head for Gryffindor Tower, and instead slipped into the first empty classroom he found, knowing that Marco would follow. As soon as Marco was back to his human form, Harry gave him a chocolate frog, taking another for himself. He may have been outside the window and in phoenix form, but there was no way the pretend dementor, that had felt very much like a real one, hadn’t brought any bad flashes for him as well.

“What happened?” Marco asked when they were done with the first chocolate frog each. He accepted another without complaint.

“I remembered Impel Down,” Harry confessed, sitting down on a desk. Marco grimaced and sat in front of him.

“Guess that explains it. What was your memory?”

“Luffy. The day his first wanted poster came out. But my thoughts wandered to Enies Lobby, and from there to him assaulting Impel Down...” He bit the head off the chocolate frog and stared down at what was left.

They stayed in silence as they worked through the remaining sweets, Marco letting him have the rest after he had eaten a third one.

“Your brothers bring back mixed memories. Maybe you should try with something else.”

“I’m not sure what,” Harry grumbled. “I tried the day I learned I was a wizard, but that didn’t work. And Pops or the rest of the crew have the same problem.”

“Then try not to let your mind wander,” Marco suggested, shrugging. “I can’t really help you there, it’s not like I can cast a Patronus or anything.”

Harry sighed.

“I’ll try to stay focused. But now I need a different memory.”

“Have you tried an orgasm? Difficult for your mind to wander with that one.”

Scoffing, Harry threw a wrapper at him.

 

* * *

 

 

With Slytherin’s victory over Ravenclaw in Quidditch, Gryffindor still had a chance to win the cup, and that meant Ace’s practice sessions had increased to five each week. Adding that to his practice with Lupin, that left him with an afternoon and the weekend’s mornings free to do other things. Weekend mornings were still dedicated to training, and so was a part of the remaining afternoon. As Ace still had a good load of homework to do every day, Marco had taken to assisting him with it. An interesting side effect of being a cartographer as experienced as he was —he had drawn maps of the entire world in more than one occasion, and had a very extensive collection of maps of many areas of the planet— was that he was incredibly skilled with a quill, skilled enough to mimic almost anyone’s handwriting. Making use of that skill, Marco wrote Ace’s essays for the subjects where it wouldn’t be noticed in class that Ace himself hadn’t done it, such as Divination —where any death omens and elaborate nonsense worked— Care of Magical Creatures —because Hagrid liked Ace so much that he wouldn’t notice if he had written something that he didn’t seem to know in class— and History of Magic —because Binns paid no attention to the students and never tested their knowledge in class. As for the subjects where the theoretical knowledge was needed in class, Marco did the general research in the library at night, but only gave Ace the pertinent books and let him write his essays himself. That saved him a considerably amount of time, and Marco was amused to see his grades had improved as well. Severus had spent an entire day glaring at Ace with clear suspicion after Ace had handed him the first essay written using this method.

Hermione would blow a fuse if she knew, accusing them of cheating —which was true, but as far as Marco was concerned, training was more important than the tasks he had taken over, and, anyway, the Quidditch season ended a couple of weeks before exams, so Ace would have time to study— but the fact was that she didn’t know, because Ace and Ron still refused to talk to her. She hadn’t even come to train any Saturday morning.

It was growing more exasperating as each day passed.

Marco had been observing her, and Hermione was working herself to an early grave with the amount of time she spent studying. There were very pronounced bags under her eyes —at one point, Marco had been reminded of Trafalgar Law looking at them, it had been the first time in a long while he had been able to remember his face— and, deciding enough was enough, Marco took matters in his own hands. The third Monday since classes had resumed, he sent a non-descript school own to deliver a request for Hermione to meet him at the Room of Requirement with the rush of the morning mail and then went there himself, sitting on a lawn chair on the deck of the Moby Dick to wait for her.

She entered not even ten minutes after receiving the letter, looking apprehensive, as this was the first time they were face to face since before Christmas, and Marco moved before she could react. Making use of his speed, he grabbed the time turner around her neck and spun it eight times. As he was holding it, he was thrown back eight hours in time with her.

“What are you doing?!” Hermione exclaimed, aghast, as soon as the world reformed around them.

Marco shrugged and took a step back.

“You look dead on your feet. You need to rest.”

“I did not receive this time turner to go back whenever I wanted!” Hermione protested, holding the object protectively in her right fist as if to prevent him from touching it again.

“Minerva didn’t intend for you to exhaust yourself when she gave you the time turner. You’re supposed to take better care of yourself. So, now, you’re going to take advantage of these extra hours and get some sleep.”

She scoffed and turned her back on him, heading for the door. It didn’t open when she tried it. She turned around to glare at him.

“What did you do?!”

“I asked the room not to open for you.”

“Well, I’m asking it to open!” Hermione announced and tried again. The door remained closed. “What _are_ you doing?!” she demanded.

“Nothing, but I assume there’s a part of you that wants to rest.”

Hermione frowned and didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to, they both knew he was right.

“You can’t continue on like this, Hermione. It’s not healthy, and you know it.” When she didn’t protest, he continued. “Just go to sleep. Past the door to the right there’s a bedroom waiting for you.”

Without saying anything, and probably seeing she had no way out, Hermione turned to the door he had pointed out.

“Oh, and Hermione? Leave your bag here. The parchment and quills in your pockets too.”

“You’re infuriating!” she exclaimed, bent down to leave her bag on the floor and angrily started to take out of her pockets all the writing utensils Marco had noticed her carrying.

“I know. Don’t bother looking for anything to write or read, I’ve asked the room to specifically not to provide any, and I’ll _know_ if you do.”

“How?” she asked challengingly.

Marco shrugged again.

“You may not believe it, but I really _can_ feel magic.”

Marco knew he had her the moment he saw guilt cross her face. It was a low blow on his part, but he knew the reminder of what had happened would ensure that she complied, if only because she didn’t want to risk offending him further.

“Go to sleep, Hermione,” he insisted in a gentler voice. “I’ll wake you up with enough time to eat something before class.”

“I can’t go to the Great Hall, I’ll be there already,” she argued, but it was feeble this time.

“I’ll bring you something.”

With a faint nod, Hermione turned and disappeared into the bedroom.

Returning to the chair, Marco asked the room for a book for himself. He smiled. Hermione wouldn’t be amused if she found out about it.

 

* * *

 

 

The next step of Marco’s plan was to get Ace to pull his head out of his ass. For that purpose, Marco cornered him that afternoon, after class but before his Quidditch practice started, in a deserted corridor and dragged him to the nearest classroom.

“This has gone on long enough, don’t you think?” he asked before Ace could speak. Ace blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“Hermione.” Unsurprisingly, Ace scowled.

“What about her?”

“You’ve made your point, now stop being an idiot and forgive her.”

“She went behind our backs,” Ace said, as he had done the first day.

“So? She was worried, and she feels like shit about it. Stop acting like a brat and forgive her. She’s your friend.”

“Obviously not so much if she decided to go to McGonagall without talking to me first,” Ace insisted mulishly, and Marco decided there was only one way of getting through his thick skull. He pulled out Pops’ last wanted poster, the one Ace was most familiar with.

“She’s taking twelve classes, she barely has time to sleep, and yet she researched the spell, learned it and made copies of every single wanted poster in the Moby Dick. Is that really something a bad friend would do?” Marco could see the exact moment he had him, and softened his tone for his next words. “You should talk to Ron, he’s much more likely to listen to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry asked McGonagall daily if he could have his broom back, ignoring her telling him to stop asking, that she would tell him when it was ready. He hadn’t looked at any more brooms, wanting his back. Marco, seeing how depressed he was over the matter, had promised to buy him another Firebolt if his wasn’t returned by the Friday before the match against Ravenclaw. Harry had accepted, because he knew Marco had so much money he could probably buy Firebolts for the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team without needing to think twice about it. He was much calmer now, knowing that he would have a good broom for the match no matter what, but that didn’t stop him from bothering McGonagall. It was also part in revenge because Wood kept bothering him about buying a new broom, and refused to believe Harry when he told him that he had matters under control.

Now that their friendship with Hermione was mended —although Ron couldn’t help making a scathing comment sometimes— things had returned to a sort of routine for Harry.

Hermione once again joined them in training Saturday morning —she had given them a speech and a very disapproving glare when she had seen Harry working on his pick-pocketing, while Ron was just as confused as ever by it— and she looked more rested than she had since classes had started again. Harry spent most of his free time training, be it with Marco, Quidditch or with Lupin. The later wasn’t going as well as he would have liked, but at least his silvery mist was growing larger and denser. All in all, he knew that if Marco hadn’t given him that healing salve he would feel like a walking bruise the entire time. He still did, sometimes, despite the salve.

Ron was trying to decipher how Hermione managed to attend all her classes, and also worrying over Scabbers, who didn’t seem to be getting any better despite the tonic Ron had bought the past summer.

As for Marco, he was proving to be a life-saver by taking over the bulk of Harry’s homework —Hermione had been _furious_ when she had discovered it, and Ron had been jealous until Marco had told him he would have to do the same amount of training that Harry did if he wanted to have the same help with his homework— and was also slowly but steadily going through the horrid Dark Arts book he had bought back in Halloween.

Finally, wonderfully, the Thursday before the next Quidditch match, right after he left another frustrating session with Lupin, Professor McGonagall returned his Firebolt.

Harry would have rushed right off to the Quidditch pitch to try it despite it being almost curfew, but his intentions must have been apparent on his face because McGonagall, stern expression in place, said she would be keeping an eye on the Quidditch pitch.

Resigned to his fate of waiting until tomorrow to try his broom, Harry dragged his feet to the common room, where the Firebolt was gratifyingly admired by the rest of his house.

The return of the Firebolt dispelled any remaining animosity Ron felt for Hermione over the incident.

Or it would have, had Ron not found blood on his sheets, Scabbers missing and hairs from Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, on the floor next to his bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Harry didn’t know what to do. He knew Ron was in his right to be angry at Hermione for the death of his pet, but at the same time, he also knew that, short of keeping Crookshanks in a cage at all hours, Hermione couldn’t have really prevented him from eating Scabbers when he had been so determined to do it.

Harry’s time in Impel Down during his life as Ace had ensured he was a firm detractor of cages of any kind.

Besides, despite her anger at Ron for immediately deciding that Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers when he only had what she called circumstantial evidence —Hermione said that the hair Ron had found could have been there from one of the many times Crookshanks had snuck into the boys’ room, and that Scabbers might have just left on his own— Hermione was _devastated_. A look at her the next morning was enough to convince Harry that she hadn’t slept a wink all night and had actually spent most of it crying.

For his part, Harry agreed with Ron that Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, but he wasn’t willing to push Hermione away because of it. For starters, she couldn’t have prevented it; Scabbers had been sick and getting worse for months, and wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway; and Ron had complained about him from day one, stating how boring he was and how he didn’t really like him.

Harry didn’t approve of the way Ron kept shooting scathing comments at Hermione, either. She may be good at hiding it, but Harry could see that they hurt her.

When Harry sat with Hermione for breakfast, Ron threw him a betrayed look and refused to talk to him for the entire morning. The incredibly grateful look Hermione gave him made it worth it.

Fred and George agreed with Harry’s view of the situation and Ginny, though she saw his point, was a lot more tactful than her brothers when trying to get Ron to see the situation in perspective. Marco also agreed, but he had pointed out that Ron _had_ spent the last few months worried about Scabbers, taking care of him, and that he would need some time to accept the fact that it was over and Scabbers was now gone.

Harry didn’t want to lose either of his friends over this, though, and, in an attempt to appease Ron, he suggested he come along to that afternoon’s Quidditch training, the last one before the match against Ravenclaw, with the promise that he would let him ride the Firebolt.

 

* * *

 

 

After the fiasco with the dementors during the previous match, Marco had told Harry that, instead of watching this one, he would keep guard on the dementors to ensure they didn’t stray from their posts and, if they did, to get Dumbledore before they could reach the Quidditch pitch. Harry had been understandably worried, but Marco had assured him that he knew at what distance he had to stay up in the sky to avoid being detected by them, and had reminded him that dementors didn’t pay much attention to animal forms, even if those were really humans.

Harry was worried, but he couldn’t deny that he felt much safer knowing that Marco had his back than he would have if he had to rely exclusively on his sorry excuse for a patronus.

 

* * *

 

 

Thankfully, the dementors seemed to have learned their lesson and, aside from turning a couple times in the general direction of the Quidditch pitch without really moving any closer to it, they didn’t react to the amount of people gathered there.

Marco didn’t leave his watch until all of the students had returned to the castle, and a quick flight through the hallways was enough to learn that Gryffindor had won the match. Aware that that meant he wouldn’t be seeing Ace today, he headed for the staff room, where he soon learned that Draco Malfoy and his two cronies had dressed as dementors in an attempt to distract Ace in the match.

Severus was furious at them, understandably, and didn’t try very hard to stop the other teachers from laughing at the incident, though of course he did put up a token defence of them for appearances’ sake.

The rest of the staff weren’t very convinced when Severus assured them that he would take care of their punishment, but by now Marco knew better. It was true that at first Severus had let almost all of the Slytherins’ bad behaviour go unpunished, and it was also true that he was lenient with them as far as detentions went, but he had taken to make them pay in a different way. Severus’ best weapon, once he had passed the awkward years of adolescence, were his words, and he had no problem in using them to cut up any student that had stepped a boundary, indifferently of their house. Sure enough, Crabbe and Goyle weren’t smart enough to understand half of what they were told, but Draco Malfoy would spend the next week fuming at having his intelligence so thoroughly questioned. As a pureblood supremacist, Malfoy believed himself to be one of the smartest people alive simply because he saw himself as part of a superior race, and having his supposed superiority questioned —mocked, even— was the surest way of hurting his pride, maybe short of making him clean toilets by hand.

By the time he dismissed the three students, part of Severus’ bad mood had evaporated, but he was still altered enough that he stormed into his rooms and poured himself a glass of firewhiskey. He didn’t even look at Marco before pouring him another, complete with a worm-shaped straw. Giving him an unamused look, Marco landed on the coffee table —earning a half-hearted annoyed glare— and sipped his drink.

Severus might not be a particularly great fan of Quidditch, but he sorely resented any sort of victory from Gryffindor in any field, and the fact that the one who had won was Harry Potter only served to make him even angrier about it.

Marco really had to find a way to make Severus see that Ace wasn’t James Potter, that he didn’t resemble his father much outside of his physical appearance, but he honestly didn’t know where to begin.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as he had some free time, Marco was going to beat himself to a pulp.

He had fallen asleep on Severus' couch, nothing unusual there, and had been startled awake by Minerva's call for all the staff to go to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower. _Sirius Black had managed to enter Gryffindor Tower._ Marco had entered such a state of panic that he hadn't waited for Severus —who had barrelled out of his room right after the announcement was over— to open the door. He had crashed through it —destroying Severus' wards in the process had _hurt_ , and it was a good thing he had been flying so fast, because he had already turned the corner by the time the healing blue flames burst all over his body.

Ace was fine, Marco could feel his presence amongst the other Gryffindor students in the common room, but Marco wasn't able to sense Sirius Black anywhere. Still, instead of searching for Black, Marco headed straight to Gryffindor Tower.

For a horrifying instant, when Minerva's voice had woken him, it had been Marineford all over again, with Ace taking a fatal attack that Marco could have blocked easily if only he had been _there,_ instead of trapped with kairoseki handcuffs too far away to reach him.

It wasn't until he saw Ace, perfectly safe and sound, attempting to calm an utterly distraught Neville Longbottom, that Marco's heart stopped trying to escape his body.

 

* * *

 

 

It was fortunate that the following day was a Sunday, because no one —probably not even Hermione— would have been able to pay the least bit of attention in class after Black's incursion last night.

Harry was _furious._

Not only had Black escaped again, but _he had tried to kill Ron._ Harry was going to kill Black in a very slow and painful way when he got his hands on him.

Ron, once he had gotten past the initial fright of his near death experience, had realized that people were paying attention to him now, and was in the common room, gladly telling his story to anybody who wanted to know it. Many people did.

Shaking his head at the way Ron drank in the attention, Harry had left the common room and headed for the Room of Requirement, where he suspected Marco would be waiting.

He couldn't be angry at Marco for missing Black, not when Harry was the one who had been in the same room and had let him escape.

 

* * *

 

 

From Black's recent incursion into the school, they gathered that he wasn't using the passage that led to Honeydukes, because the wards were untouched on the statue the next day. Later that day, Hagrid tried to talk some sense into Ron about his treatment of Hermione, to no avail.

Things went on in the school. The students relaxed after a few days when there were no further signs of Black's presence.

It wasn't long before the next Hogsmeade trip arrived.

Hermione was very disappointed when she learned that Harry would go despite the situation with Black. She wouldn't go, because tensions with Ron were still high and she had a lot of homework to take care of.

Harry almost changed his mind about going to Hogsmeade when he learned that Buckbeak's trial was the same day, because he thought Marco could go with Hagrid if he didn't have to scout Hogsmeade in search of Black. He decided to go, though, because even Marco had agreed with Ron that the Comission wouldn't even let him into the courtroom, being a magical creature, and he added that his presence might even annoy some of the old bastards and make things more difficult for Hagrid.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco was going to kill Ace, long wait for him to be reborn be damned.

The _idiot_ had decided that it would be fun to prank Draco Malfoy and his two thugs —which they did deserve, mind you— and had been seen by Malfoy. In Hogsmeade. While the invisibility cloak covered all of Ace's body except for his head.

Ace had always been disastrous at stealth.

While Ace took the tunnel back to school, Marco followed Malfoy, and refused to intervene when Severus was informed of what had happened.

By the end of the meeting, Lupin, whom Severus had called in an effort to get some revenge that had backfired on him, had confiscated the Marauders' Map, saying that Ace should have handed it in when he got it. Very hypocritical of his part, as far as Marco was concerned.

The only thing Marco was willing to do to help Ace in this mess was to retrieve the invisibility cloak that Ace had been forced to leave inside the entrance of the tunnel, and Marco only did it because there existed the small risk of someone finding it.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, Marco went to check on Hagrid, and found him drunk and sobbing in an utterly miserable way.

They had lost the trial.

Buckbeak was going to be executed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we got some more art from Red Pirana for this chapter :D


	28. The connection

Ron’s grudge against Hermione all but disappeared when they found her waiting for them outside the common room. Ron had expected her to rub it in that they had been caught —he had been in enough of a bad mood after Lupin had confiscated the Marauders’ Map that he had told her as much. He hadn’t expected Hermione to entirely ignore his comment and tell them, barely holding back tears, that Hagrid had lost the trial and Buckbeak was going to be executed.

That wasn’t all. Reading the letter Hagrid had sent, Ron saw he was thanking both her and Harry for their help preparing the trial, and it was a second blow to him to realize that Harry, Hermione and Marco had continued to work on Buckbeak’s defence all this time. Ron hadn’t. After Scabbers’ death, he had been so angry and so focused on being angry at Hermione that he had forgotten all about Hagrid’s plight.

He couldn’t be angry at Hermione when he, himself, had been so indifferent to a friend’s suffering.

Due to the safety measures that had been imposed after Black broke into the school the second time, they couldn’t go visit Hagrid, and had to wait for their next class of Care of Magical Creatures to check on him in person. But they already knew how Hagrid was doing. Not well at all, according to Marco. He had been drinking a lot —that, coming from a pirate, was even more worrying than it would be if anyone else said it— he had been crying a lot and he was barely managing to sleep.

A look at him in class was enough to spot all the effects these circumstances were having on him.

And Draco Malfoy, naturally, wasn’t helping matters. He spent the entire class snickering and making snide and mocking comments that clearly were meant to hurt Hagrid, but it wasn’t until the end of the class, after Hagrid had walked the students back to the castle and just left to go to his cabin, that Malfoy truly stepped over the line.

Malfoy had always openly laughed at the fact that Hagrid was their teacher, finding him pathetic and had expressed how inadequate he found him to be a professor. Ron, Harry and Hermione could barely manage to hold back, the thought that doing something might give Hagrid further trouble being the only thing that served to stop Harry from losing it.

It wasn’t Harry who lost it.

Hermione was the one who marched up to Malfoy, all fury and clenched fists, and, before anyone could realize what was happening, punched him right on the face with enough strength to send him to the ground. She yelled something at him —Ron wasn’t sure, he was too busy blinking stupidly and staring at Malfoy, who had sat up and rubbed at his very much painful-looking nose— and then _kicked him in the stomach_.

Then she marched off in a fury.

Harry whistled and, to the confusion of all the students present, burst out laughing and started to _clap_.

Suddenly, Ron felt very fortunate that he hadn’t angered her enough to attack him. He also decided to take training more seriously, realizing that, if Hermione had decided to continue attacking Malfoy —proven that Ron didn’t try to stop her, because Harry wouldn’t have— he wouldn’t have had a chance to pull his wand out and defend himself with magic.

Ron hadn’t truly understood the value of physical strength until now.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco raised his head from the History of Magic book where he had been researching for Ace’s next essay when the door of the Room of Requirement slammed shut and saw Hermione storm in, a _furious_ expression on her face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Divination right now?” Marco asked, after a quick check of the school that proved the other Hermione in the current timeline was still in the Ancient Runes classroom.

“Not anymore,” she practically growled, dropping her bag on the floor and crossing her arms.

“Oh.” Marco grinned. “So you’ve finally decided to drop it? I was wondering when you would.”

She glared at him.

“It’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is,” he disagreed, still grinning. “Everybody’s going to be talking about you, one of the most studious people in the entire school, dropping Divination. And, by your face, I’m guessing it wasn’t pretty.”

Hermione actually pulled at her hair at this, an utterly exasperated expression on her face.

“I just _can’t stand_ that woman!”

“You’ll find that’s a common feeling in this school. Besides, you aren’t missing anything, she’s a fraud.”

That caught Hermione’s attention, and she looked up at him.

“But you said she’s the one who said that prophecy about Harry and Voldemort.”

Marco shrugged.

“That prophecy _is_ a real one, but that doesn’t change the fact that Trelawney is unable to consciously reach any seer powers she has.”

“Oh.” Hermione blinked. “Then why did you let Harry take the class?”

Marco just smirked. It wasn’t like any of the other classes would be of use to Ace —Muggle Studies was a joke, and he would have zero interest in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes— and the idea of seeing him suffer through Trelawney’s constant predictions of his death, because there had been no doubt in anyone who knew her that she would choose him for that, had been too good to pass.

She shook her head.

“You’re like a billion years old. You’re supposed to be mature.”

“Maturity is overrated, trust me. Anyway, go get changed,” he instructed, pointing over his shoulder at the door that led to the cabins they used for that purpose.

“Why?”

“I saw what happened with Malfoy earlier. Between that, and this now, you’ll kill someone if you don’t get rid of that extra tension.”

Hermione actually blushed and looked down at that comment, no doubt feeling a little embarrassed over the scene that had already become the most gossiped about event of the month. She moved to the door.

“And, Hermione? Good punch.”

 

* * *

 

 

Easter was a complicated holiday this year. The load of homework in third year had increased considerably from the previous two years, and the teachers acted as if exams were almost here, instead of over a month away.

As there were no classes, Harry had taken again the chore that was doing all his homework himself, Marco heartlessly stating that he could consider this practice for studying for his exams. Ron, who felt horrible because he hadn’t helped prepare Buckbeak’s trial, was going over all the material again in search of something that could help in the appeal that would be held right before the execution was scheduled, even though they all knew it would be useless. Despite having dropped Divination, Hermione was still drowning in homework, and they were all trying to ensure that she had some proper rest. Harry went so far as to suggest they split the research for the subjects they shared together, and Hermione was so desperate that she had agreed. Marco was back to going over the sickening Dark Arts book. Harry had been so happy to have help with his homework that he hadn’t noticed Marco had cut back his time with the book. Harry suspected he had seen it as a vacation of sorts.

And then, there was quidditch. If they survived practices —which seemed less likely as each day passed— Harry knew they would have a good chance to win the cup. Wood was going all the way out in ensuring he covered as many possible scenarios as he came up with.

There was also the possibility that Harry killed Wood before the match —that would be the first Saturday after the holiday. Because Slytherin was in the lead with the points, Wood had made a point of reminding Harry, multiple times each day, of the circumstances in which he could and couldn’t catch the snitch (“So you must catch it _only_ if we’re _more_ than fifty points up,” Wood would repeat again and again), as if Harry hadn’t reached the point where he _dreamt_ about the match.

The tension surrounding the match had seeped through the entire school, and it was rare the day no hexes were exchanged between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. Some of these encounters ended with someone in the Hospital Wing. People said that there had never been a match surrounded by such tense atmosphere, but Marco had denied it. He said that, while it _was_ the most tension there had been in over a decade, in all the time he had been in the school the match that had been surrounded by the most charged atmosphere and the greatest amounts of dirty play in the hallways had been the final of Harry’s parents seventh year, which again had been Gryffindor versus Slytherin and had been in one of the most active years of the war.

During all this, Harry had decided the best course of action was to put to practice his honed stealth skills with a wand and retaliate to anyone who tried to do anything to him. Not even Hermione opposed this tactic. Harry had, in fact, caught her throwing a couple of spells herself.

Harry couldn’t say he was honestly surprised when Marco decided to leave the afternoon before the match. Marco hadn’t taken part in all the fuss, he had rolled his eyes a lot these past few weeks, and he said he would just end up smacking someone if he stayed around for the tensest hours. He had promised he would be back to watch the match.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had stayed, anyway, because Harry wasn’t allowed out of Oliver Wood’s sight once classes on Friday were over.

The entire Gryffindor house holed up in the common room to fret over the match. Even Hermione was too nervous to study.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco sat with his back against the wall, arms limp by his sides and his head turned up. He wasn’t looking at the faded and cracked ceiling of the room, nor was he paying any attention to the ancient book thrown face down on the floor. Not that it mattered, because the words on the open pages were all but seared in his mind.

_Horcrux..._

Yes, he had encountered that word before. Something no manual about Dark Arts in the restricted section had described.

_No wonder._

He hadn’t thought much about the term, just another point in his list to check. It had been one of the least important, even, because he had found so little information on it he couldn’t even begin to guess its significance.

_What an idiot. Of course it was important._

_‘Horcrux’, ‘soul fragment’, ‘keeps its creator’s soul alive even if the body is destroyed’._

That sounded like something Voldemort —the ignorant fool who desired immortality above all else— would do. The warnings about a great price to pay wouldn’t matter to him. Why would they? He thought himself above all others.

The diary had been an Horcrux. Of course it had, it made perfect sense. Tom Riddle had had no difficulties in obtaining a pass for the restricted section from any of the many professors who blindly adored him, and back then this book, _this study in all that was wrong and sick in humanity_ , had been there. No wonder Albus had removed it. Of course Riddle would have made an Horcrux. He would have done it as soon as he believed he had learnt the magic behind it —which he had, unfortunately— and of course he would believe creating a way to open the Chamber of Secrets again when he had been forced to close it was a worthy enough reason to do it.

Marco had barely had any time to savour the satisfaction of figuring out the mystery when it had hit him.

 _“He gave some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar.”_ Those had been Albus’ words, when they had returned from the Chamber of Secrets, to Ace.

_‘A murder is necessary to create a Horcrux.’_

Not surprising, given the nature of the spell. And it was no wonder, none at all, that Voldemort would have thought it fitting to use the murder of the person that had been named as the one who could defeat it to create one of the items that would ensure his immortality.

Only that it had backfired, hadn’t it?

_Parseltongue..._

_‘Anything, be it inanimate or living, can be made a Horcrux.’_

 

* * *

 

 

Marco hadn’t come.

When he had caught the snitch and the announcement that Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup had been made, Harry had expected to be tackled by a red feathery blur, but it hadn’t happened. He had thought Marco, who had far greater self-control than Harry, was waiting for when there was less public, but he hadn’t appeared. At all. Not flying above the students while the entirety of Gryffindor House carried the team practically on people’s shoulders, the cup guarded escorted like the most important item in existence, to the school and up to the common room. He hadn’t used the amount of people entering to fly in unnoticed. He hadn’t, despite Harry checking constantly to make sure, appeared outside of a window to demand entrance.

Marco simply hadn’t appeared and, as much as Harry had enjoyed the party, as much as the euphoria still kept him bouncing on his toes from time to time because _they had won_ , he couldn’t help but worry. Which was stupid, because it was _Marco_ he was talking about. Marco, careful and far too good at what he did, who had survived literally for millennia on his own.

And yet, the image of kairoseki handcuffs and light beans piercing his chest would sneak, uninvited, into his mind from time to time.

That had been the last time he had seen Marco, more than just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, at Marineford.

It was way past four in the morning now. By this point the party had dialled down, most of the lower years’ students had gone to sleep and many of the upper years ones had slipped out of the common room with a boyfriend or girlfriend for a celebration of their own. Harry had enlisted Fred and George’s help to escape unnoticed. They had correctly guessed he wanted to meet Marco, but thought they were going to celebrate (“Getting drunk? Lucky you!”), when at this point Harry wasn’t sure what he planned to do.

The Room of Requirement was empty —not that Harry had truly expected to find Marco there— and so Harry headed for their classroom. He didn’t think there would be a different result there, and wasn’t surprised to find it empty as well.

Still, instead of wandering the halls aimlessly, because he had no way to locate Marco, or returning to a party he didn’t feel like being part of anymore, Harry closed the door, used the locking and warding spells he knew on it and moved to sit on the floor. It was the same spot where they had fallen asleep the first night of term, and it was there where Harry fell asleep, waiting.

 

* * *

 

 

A crash startled Harry awake. He sat up, but before he could even look around at the barely illuminated room —early, then— Marco’s face was _right there_ , mere inches from his own, and their foreheads touched. Marco squeezed his eyes shut.

“...Marco...?” Harry asked hesitantly, unsure of what was going on.

Marco didn’t answer. His mouth, not only his eyes, looked tense, and only then did Harry realize his hands were holding him by the upper arms. There was strength behind that grip; a little more and it would be painful.

“... _Fuck_ ,” Marco said, out of nowhere and for no apparent reason, and he sagged against Harry.

His head titled to the side just enough so his face could rest on Harry’s shoulder —and his head hit the wall, but Marco didn’t seem to even notice— and then he had let go of Harry’s arms and had brought him close, hugging him.

“Marco?” Harry asked again. “What the hell’s going on? Are you okay?”

Instead of answering —and Harry was growing worried fast, because Marco looked suspiciously close to panicked, and Marco _didn’t panic_ — Marco moved again, turning them so that now he was the one leaning against the wall, and Harry was on his lap. It was an awkward position, because Harry had grown a few inches these past months, but he didn’t complain.

“Do you remember... the conversation with Albus after the Chamber last year?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, looking up. In his current position, he could see little more than Marco’s chin. He moved so he could see part of his face.

Marco had his eyes closed.

“Do you remember what he said?”

“He said a lot of things- Wait! Is this about it? The diary? You figured out what it is?!” Harry asked, talking faster as he did —because, _finally_ , they had _answers_ — and tried to sit up. Marco didn’t let him, again bringing him close and resting his head against Harry’s. “Whatever it is, you’re scaring me,” Harry said.

“That thing was a Horcrux.”

Harry searched his mind but came up empty.

“Never heard of them.”

“I hadn’t, either.” That alone was strange, given how long Marco had been around. A very little known thing, then, and a bad one it seemed.

“What are they?”

Instead of answering, Marco searched in one of his pockets —which was awkward, because he didn’t let go of Harry first— and came up with a paper.

A torn page from a book.

By the time he had read it, Harry was glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.

“Charming,” he muttered bitterly. “That’s _so_ something Voldemort would do...”

“Yeah, thought exactly the same.”

“But?” Harry prompted. “This is sickening, but nowhere bad enough to get you to react like this, so what happened?”

“But there is no way, none I know of —and I’ve checked _every single book_ I could find since Albus said that— for a wizard to give powers to another. Much less unwittingly. Unless something backfires. Unless _that_ backfires.”

Harry felt cold spread through him.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, though he knew that yes, Marco was very much serious. He must have looked at this in a thousand ways before coming here, and realized that it made sense.

Dumbledore’s words held a completely different meaning now.

“Fucking Dumbledore. Fucking Trelawney,” Harry muttered, and he had rarely meant words like these as much as he did now.

“...Agreed.”

“How do you destroy a Horcrux?” Harry asked, though Marco’s current state was all the answer he needed.

“All the ways listed in the book include the destruction of whatever was used to house it.”

_Nice._

“So, until we find a way to get rid of it, Voldemort can’t be killed,” Harry said. He felt Marco nod. “How come you hadn’t felt it before?” Because Marco would have reacted, if he had, and now Harry could identify Marco’s first action by what it had been: he had been looking for it. And he had found it.

“When you reincarnated, I knew your presence would change. You would be _you_ , but influenced by your new life. Your parents, magic... that would affect how you felt. I never saw you as a baby, I didn’t know you were _the_ Harry Potter until the day you walked into the Great Hall and I matched your presence to your very well known face. That... thing... It’s barely noticeable. Even knowing it’s there, it’s so drowned by you that it took me some effort to find. I hadn’t paid attention to it before, and, if I did, I discarded it as one of the normal changes. Even now, the only reason I can sense it is because I can’t stop thinking that _it’s there_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The secret is out, finally :D Now they have to figure out what to do about that little piece of soul...
> 
> As you may have noticed, I edited Hermione's attack on Malfoy. This way fits better with their current situation.


	29. Trelawney's prophecy

Harry and Marco didn't leave the classroom for the entire Sunday morning. They didn't talk much, just stayed in the same position for hours and stared out of the now broken window. Harry wasn't even bothered by the cold breeze that came through it.

Long ago, as Portgas D. Ace, he hadn't cared much if he lived or died, not past how it would affect the people that —for reasons he sometimes had struggled to comprehend— had loved him. Not even an hour after he had felt for the first time that he _truly_ wanted to live, he had died.

Now things were different.

He wasn't the son of a monster that most people thought shouldn't have been born; he was the son of good people that many had loved and still mourned. He had never, despite his relatives' efforts —or maybe _because_ of them— felt that he was less than others or didn't deserve to live. The only true, unarguable parallel between his two lives was the fact that he had found people who loved him for who he was.

And Marco.

Marco, who had never doubted him even when Harry himself —Ace— had, who had waited for him longer than he could remember only to discover that Harry might have to die young again.

"There has to be a way," Harry said resolutely. He wasn't going to simply accept that Marco had to go through this crap again. "I mean, these horcrux things are one of magic's darkest little secrets, right? So they aren't well known, but that doesn't have to mean they _can't_ be undone safely."

"Yes," Marco agreed, his head still resting against Harry's. "This book," he said, reaching for the discarded page, "is from the Middle Ages." He crumbled the page and put it in his coat pocket. "People have had centuries to study these things. I'll just have to keep looking."

Just then, Harry's stomach growled, reminding him that, despite how much he had eaten at the feast last night, over twelve hours was not an acceptable period of time without food.

Marco chuckled.

"Come on, go to the Great Hall. It's lunchtime already." He pushed Harry gently by the shoulders to prompt him to stand and, when Harry did, he stood up as well.

"What will you do?" Harry asked, turning to look at him.

"First of all, I'll drop by the kitchens and tell the elves about the window. They probably already know, but..." Marco shrugged, somewhat sheepishly, and Harry grinned. He probably hadn't even realized he had broken it earlier.

"And then?"

"I have some planning to do." He stepped closer to Harry and placed both hands on his shoulders, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "I won't let you die again."

 

* * *

 

 

Harry didn't tell Ron and Hermione about the horcruxes. He hadn't planned to hide it from them, but when Hermione had asked why he hadn't shown up for breakfast, he hadn't wanted to put this burden on their shoulders. They would insist on helping, maybe try to convince him to talk to someone —like Dumbledore, who already knew— and there was nothing they could help with. Hermione would delve into every Dark Arts book in the school, saying that Marco hadn't known about horcruxes when he read them and might have missed something, and Ron would help despite his dislike of the library. There was nothing in those books, horcruxes were only mentioned once, and Harry didn't want his friends to read the sickening contents in those tomes. They were still children, nowhere ready for that side of humanity.

And so, when Hermione asked, Harry lied. He kept mostly to the truth, to be as convincing as possible. He had left the party to go look for Marco, they had stayed up until late, had completely missed breakfast and Harry looked tired because he had barely slept. They didn't need to know he had slept before meeting Marco, instead of after as they assumed.

Harry's euphoria over winning the Quidditch Cup was completely gone, and he only put up a token protest when Hermione suggested they spent the remainder of the day studying.

Ron slipped away, but spending the entire afternoon frustrated over a potions essay sounded better than failing to enjoy himself while he remembered a burning fist pierce through his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco's first impulse had been to barge into Borgin and Burkes and demand Borgin to find the entire list of books that Albus had removed from the restricted section decades ago, but he didn't. First of all, that would draw a lot of unwanted attention and suspicion, not to mention that Borgin would catch on his desperation and might even get a stupid idea in his head.

Instead, Marco selected another book from his list, put on a set of sombre black robes —black seemed the most appropriate colour to wear right now— and headed for the shop on Monday morning, early enough that most businesses had just opened, but late enough that people had already started their shifts at the Ministry of Magic or St. Mungo's. It was the least busy hour during the day, the best to shop calmly without attracting attention to himself.

Borgin's eyes opened in terrified recognition when Marco walked in, but he schooled his expression immediately. If there was something Borgin had learnt from their previous meetings, other than the fact that Marco was dangerous, it was that Marco had a lot of money to spend.

The real reason this shop had stayed open for so long was the owners' willingness to deal with rich, dangerous people.

Borgin smiled his simpering and entirely fake smile. Marco nodded in greeting and approached the counter.

 

* * *

 

 

Now that there were no more quidditch practices to occupy most of his free time, Harry divided that time between studying and training.

The exams had seemed far away until, suddenly, they were upon them. Everybody —even Fred and George, to general amazement— could be seen studying at one point or another, though perhaps no one's obsession reached the level Hermione's did, even though Percy wasn't far behind.

Harry wasn't particularly bothered by his exams, he would be fine if he simply passed them, no need for great grades, but the nerves permeating the school were contagious, and he found himself worrying like everybody else.

As exams came closer and closer, the common room and the library grew increasingly packed with students, until eventually Marco suggested that they studied in the room of requirement, where they could simply ask for nearly any book they needed —extreme Dark Arts book were an exception, Marco had informed Harry in annoyance. Fred, George and Ginny joined them.

The sight of six teenagers studying at the mess hall of the Moby Dick was so amusing that Marco even took a picture. Back in the day, there would have been mock dismayed comments at the sight.

 

* * *

 

 

The same day the exam calendar was published, Hagrid received a letter informing him Buckbeak's appeal would be held the sixth of June, and there would be a member of the Committee and an executioner present. Later that day, Malfoy, who had been mostly silent since his defeat at quidditch, made a mocking comment about Hagrid.

Harry cast a curse to give him haemorrhoids.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, exam week arrived and nerves —in some cases even terror— took hold of the student population.

Transfiguration was the depressing first exam for the third years. Their task had been to turn a teapot into a turtle, to varying degrees of success. The shell of Harry’s turtle had still been made of porcelain, and he wondered how much that would take off his mark. They had to cast a cheering charm on a partner for their Charms exam, which resulted in Ron laughing for an hour straight before he could cast his charm because Harry had the bad tendency of overpowering his incantations when he was nervous.

The next day it was Care of Magical Creatures, Potions and Astronomy. Hagrid was understandably depressed over Buckbeak’s upcoming execution, and had clearly spared no thought for the exam. The students were given a flobberworm and told that, to pass the exam, they had to keep it alive the entire hour. Those things were better off left alone, and that meant the students had an hour of doing nothing. Harry, Ron and Hermione took advantage of it to check on Hagrid. Harry failed miserably in his attempt at a Confusing Concoction for Potions, and could see Snape giving him a zero even before the time was up. As for Astronomy, the only annoying part of the exam was that they had to stay up very late that night to do it when they had more exams tomorrow.

Wednesday was for History of Magic, where Harry used the information Marco had researched for his essays, and Herbology in the greenhouse, where they were subjected to the sun and the not-so-friendly magical plants. Not that Harry had any problem with said plants, because most magical flora seemed as scared of him as they had been his first day. By now, Professor Sprout was more than used to this occurrence, and she had learned to adapt her evaluation of Harry’s knowledge to circumvent the plants’ reactions to him.

Thursday was the last day of exams. Defence Against the Dark Arts in the morning and Divination after lunch.

Harry had been looking forward to the Defence exam; this was the first year they actually had it, both previous years the teachers hadn’t even lasted long enough to evaluate the students, and Professor Lupin had told them it would be a practical one. As it turned out, it was an obstacle course where they had to face some of the creatures they had studied, and Harry found himself grinning through most of it. It felt like going on a small adventure.

When he had to face the last of the creatures, a boggart, Harry instinctively cast his weak patronus at the pretend dementor before remembering himself and using the _riddikulus_ spell instead. The dementor tripped on its robe and fell face down.

When Harry approached, Lupin gave him a knowing grin for his little slip, but then announced he had full marks (“In this case, the first spell would have worked, too,” he told Harry).

Harry grinned, gave Marco —up on one of the tree branches— a thumbs up when Lupin wasn’t looking, and decided to wait for Ron and Hermione.

Ron advanced well until the hinkypunk, which managed to confuse him and made him sink into the swamp. Harry privately thought Luffy would have fallen for that, too, and chuckled. He sobered up before Ron could see him and patted him sympathetically on the back.

“That was good,” he assured Ron. “You’ll pass for sure, don’t worry.”

Ron grumbled something in response.

Ron’s bad mood over his results all but vanished at the end of Hermione’s exam.

Hermione did great throughout the course and reached the last point: the tree containing the boggart. She went in, and soon after came out screaming.

Harry and Ron lurched forward, as did Lupin, and Marco jumped down from the branch. Aware of how horrible an encounter with a boggart could be, Harry placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder while Lupin asked her if she was alright and what had happened.

“P-P-Professor McGonagall!” she gasped, a trembling hand pointed at the trunk. “Sh-she said I’d failed everything!”

They were horrible friends. There was no other way to describe them when Harry and Ron burst out laughing. In his phoenix form, Marco couldn’t laugh properly, but he was shaking and happy trills left his beak every now and then.

Professor Lupin gave them all a disapproving look and proceeded to calm the distraught Hermione.

When Hermione was finally calm, she, Harry and Ron headed back to the castle. Hermione gave them the cold shoulder and they tried to apologize, but it was difficult to sound sincere when they were still trying to repress snickers.

They sobered up quickly when they saw none other than Cornelius Fudge standing at the top of the entrance steps, staring out at the grounds. He seemed startled for a moment when he saw them, as if he had been lost in thought and hadn’t noticed their approach. A snide corner of Harry’s mind expressed surprise that Fudge had the necessary capabilities to become lost in his thoughts.

“Hello there, Harry!” he greeted him. “Just had an exam, I expect? Nearly finished?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, shrugging. He was about to say they had to go when Fudge continued.

“Lovely day,” he said, looking around. “Pity... pity...” He sighed, a little theatrically in Harry’s opinion, and looked at him. “I’m here on an unpleasant mission, Harry. The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures required a witness to the execution of a mad hippogriff. As I needed to visit Hogwarts to check on the Black situation, I was asked to step in.”

“Does that mean the appeal’s already happened?” Ron interrupted.

“No, no, it’s scheduled for this afternoon.”

“Then you might not have to witness an execution at all!” argued Ron, who had taken up Buckbeak’s case after the trial with great zeal as compensation for having forgotten about it. “The hippogriff might get off!”

Right then, two men came out through the castle doors. One was very old, the kind of man that seemed would crumble to the ground any minute; the other was tall and looked strong, and Harry’s trained eyes immediately zeroed on what he had strapped at his waist. An axe. And he was eagerly running a finger over its blade.

They had brought the execution weapon.

Harry set his jaw and clenched one fist.

 _So much for justice_ , he thought bitterly.

The old wizard squinted towards Hagrid’s cabin before he spoke in a weak voice.

“Dear, dear, I’m getting too old for this... Two o’clock, isn’t it, Fudge?”

Harry turned around and left, soon followed by Ron and Hermione. They were arguing over what they had seen, but Harry was too furious to take part in it. If he spoke, he didn’t doubt it would turn into a tirade that would only serve to work him up even further, and if he grew any angrier he might just decide to turn around and go beat that executioner up.

With the reminder of the upcoming execution, any excitement they had felt over the end of the exams vanished, and lunch was a bleak and depressing affair preceding their final exam. For Hermione, that exam was Muggle Studies; for Harry and Ron, Divination.

Once Harry and Ron reached the seventh floor, Neville told them Trelawney would see them one by one. As people came down from their exam, they all refused to tell what it had been, claiming something bad would happen to them if they did.

“That’s convenient,” Ron muttered with a snort. “You know, I’m starting to think Hermione was right about her: she’s an old fraud.”

“You just figured that out?”

Ron turned to look at him.

“I thought, with the… _you know_ ,” he gestured vaguely with his hands, “she had to be the real deal, but now…”

Harry scoffed.

“Yeah, well, she’s proved she can’t predict shit voluntarily. I should have known from Marco’s reaction when he learned I was taking Divination.”

“We could switch next year.”

“Nah. Muggle Studies is ridiculous, and have you _seen_ Hermione’s other textbooks?”

Ron grimaced.

“I’d rather stick with making up grim predictions.”

“Me too.”

Ron’s turn arrived, and Harry wished him luck. He was the first person Trelawney didn’t manage to intimidate into silence, and told Harry the exam was to look into a crystal ball. Sighing, Harry thanked him and waited for his name to be called, hurriedly trying to come up with an appropriately unfortunate prediction that would satisfy Trelawney and give him a passing grade. Harry had been left the last one —naturally— and, because all previous exams had taken a relatively long time, he agreed to meet Ron, and probably Hermione, at the common room once he was done.

After an unnecessary long wait —it wasn’t as if she was doing anything— Trelawney called his name and Harry went up the stairs to the Divination classroom.

Trelawney was waiting, sitting on one of the cushions before a large crystal ball.

“Good day, my dear,” she greeted him in that soft voice that tried to sound mystical but failed at it. “If you would kindly gaze into the Orb... Take your time, now... then tell me what you see within it...”

Harry repressed an exasperated sigh, approached the ball and squinted down at it to see if he spotted anything barely resembling a shape to use as a base to fake his way through the exam. There was absolutely nothing in the fog inside the ball, as usual, and he decided he would have to make it all up from the start.

He mentioned he saw an animal shape, and immediately realized his mistake because Trelawney was obsessed with relating the Grim to him. Before she could do that, he hurriedly said it was a hippogriff —the first thing that came to him, as Buckbeak had been at the forefront of his mind since his encounter with Fudge— and from there it seemed, just for the tiniest moment, that he might even pass the exam. Then again, to have Trelawney’s approval would have meant saying that Buckbeak was dead or going to die horribly, something Harry refused to do. He accepted the very high likelihood of failing the exam and stubbornly stuck to affirming that Buckbeak was alive and not about to die.

Trelawney gave up when she realized she wouldn’t be able to nudge him into saying something different and concluded the exam. Harry couldn’t wait to get out of the classroom.

Which meant something had to happen.

He was halfway to the trapdoor when Trelawney spoke behind him, in a harsh and loud voice he had never heard from her before.

“ _It will happen tonight_.”

He turned around, eyebrows raised up in scepticism against his will, and saw Trelawney was sitting completely still, her eyes unfocused —a different kind of unfocused than her usual affected mannerisms.

“What?” Harry asked, barely holding back the exasperation he felt from showing in his voice.

She didn’t seem to hear him, instead her eyes rolled back and Harry, for a fleeting moment, hoped she wasn’t about to pass out on him or something. She didn’t, she just kept talking in the same voice from before, as if her eyes weren’t in a position that made Harry’s own eyes hurt in sympathy.

“ _The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight... the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant’s aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight... before midnight... the servant... will set out... to rejoin... his master..._ ”

Trelawney’s head dropped forward, her eyes blinking repeatedly behind her ugly round glasses that resembled too much Harry’s old ones.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me_ , Harry thought, his eyes wide. He would be extremely disconcerted right now if he didn’t have the background information on her that he had, but, because he did, he was pretty sure he knew what he had witnessed. _What is she, Voldemort’s private seer?_

“I’m so sorry, dear boy,” Trelawney said in her usual voice, snapping Harry out of his inner cursing, “the heat of the day, you know... I drifted off for a moment...”

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Harry half-stammered out, his mind too busy running over what he had just heard to pay her any attention. “If you’re fine now, I’ll be off.”

He left the classroom thinking he had to tell Marco, Ron and Hermione about this, muttering all the way because, apparently, somewhere there was a Death Eater stupid enough to want to bring Voldemort back.

As he should have known, he didn’t have a chance to mention what had happened with Trelawney, because as soon as he entered the common room he was informed that Buckbeak had lost the appeal.

The execution would be at sunset.

Hagrid had written to tell them, and asked that they didn’t go.

Ron at first argued that they wouldn’t be allowed to go with the security measures in place (“Much less you, Harry”), but they had the invisibility cloak for a reason.

There was no way they wouldn’t go visit Hagrid.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe you had this with you the whole year and didn’t tell us,” Harry muttered, pressing his ear to the closet Hermione had hidden them in while their past selves marched as silently as they could through the entrance hall and towards Hagrid’s cabin. “We could’ve had _so much fun_ …”

“This isn’t for fun, Harry,” she admonished him. “Professor McGonagall gave it to me so I could attend my classes, nothing else. It was bad enough that Marco made me use it to take extra naps, the last thing I needed—“ she trailed off when she noticed the dark look that crossed Harry’s face suddenly. “He’s okay, I’m sure,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder and smiling, though she wasn’t as sure of her own words as she would have liked.

Marco hadn’t been at the hospital wing when they had woken up, nor had he arrived later with Professor Dumbledore, and now that the stress of trying to convince people who wouldn’t listen of Sirius’ innocence was over, she was acutely aware that Marco never left Harry alone in the hospital wing until he was assured that Harry was fine.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said, nodding. Just like Hermione, he didn’t seem as convinced as he probably wanted to be. “He must’ve gone to try to locate Pettigrew or something.”

“He could do that with haki?” Hermione asked, glad for the small change of topic.

“Yes. I think they’re gone. What now?”

Hermione thought about it for a moment.

“I’m not sure. Dumbledore was really specific that we should come back three hours, so I guess he had something in mind. Maybe we should follow ourselves and see if something comes up?”

Harry smiled slightly, but suddenly he froze.

“Of course!”

“What?”

“Buckbeak! Dumbledore said we could save more than one life! And we know which one is the window to the office Sirius is in!”

Hermione grinned. Professor Dumbledore had really thought everything through before sending them back.

 “Let’s go, then,” she said, but stopped before taking hold of the door handle. “Wait, just a moment. There’s something you have to understand: you can’t be seen.”

“Why not?” Harry asked.

Hermione sighed.

“What do you think would happen if you saw your double and didn’t know about the time turner?”

After she explained, they stepped out of the closet and crept through the deserted entrance hall, to the doors.

A year ago, Hermione might have been more worried about how to proceed from here, but with her life so full of strange and impossible things now —even using the standards of the wizarding world— she didn’t argue when Harry suggested they ran straight for the Forbidden Forest. After all the training they had done this year, it wasn’t even a straining effort for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you may have noticed, I'm going to work with both timelines at the same time. I didn't see the point of writing first one and then the other when we all know about the time turner.


	30. The execution

When they reached the door to Hagrid’s cabin, Harry knocked on it.

“It’s us,” he said as soon as Hagrid opened the door. “We’re wearing the invisibility cloak. Let us in and we can take it off.”

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered, eyes wide, but let them in anyway and shut the door behind them. They took the cloak off.

Hagrid looked miserable. He wasn’t the sobbing mess from Christmas, when he had received the notice of the trial, and instead he looked like a man who had lost all hope of things turning out alright. Harry felt hot anger burn through him, and he folded the cloak around his arm with movements far more forceful than necessary.

Hagrid went to serve them tea. Harry doubted any of them was in the mood for it, but he understood the need to stay busy under stressful circumstances, so he didn’t point it out.

“Where’s Buckbeak, Hagrid?” Hermione asked, hesitant, looking around the cabin.

Buckbeak was nowhere to be seen.

“I... I took him outside,” Hagrid answered. The milk he had been pouring on the jug spilled all over the table. “He’s tethered in me pumpkin patch. Thought he oughta see the trees an’-an’ smell fresh air... before—”

Hagrid’s hands had been trembling from the start, but now the trembling increased enough that he let go of the jug and it crashed to the floor, spreading milk all over the place.

“I’ll do it, Hagrid,” Hermione offered, pulling her wand out to clean the mess before anything else.

“There’s another one in the cupboard,” Hagrid said, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

Harry sat next to him, opening his mouth and closing it again. He had almost asked if there was nothing that could be done, but he already knew the answer. They had tried. Everything. At this stage, not even Dumbledore, with all his influence in the wizarding world, could change things. An awkward silence followed, neither him nor Ron knowing what to say or do.

“Dumbledore’s gonna come down while it... while it happens,” Hagrid told them suddenly, breaking the silence. “Wrote me this mornin’. Said he wants ter... ter be with me. Great man, Dumbledore...” Harry may be angry at Dumbledore at the moment, but he had to agree that it was a nice gesture on his part.

“We’ll stay with you too, Hagrid,” Hermione said in a choked voice, and Ron and Harry were quick to nod their agreement.

Hagrid disagreed.

“Yeh’re ter go back up ter the castle. I told yeh, I don’ wan’ yeh watchin’. An’ yeh shouldn’ be down here anyway... If Fudge an’ Dumbledore catch yeh out without permission, Harry, yeh’ll be in big trouble.”

Hermione was crying now, and she distracted herself by continuing to prepare the tea no one felt like having. She suddenly shrieked, sounding startled more than anything else.

They all turned to her.

“Ron! I-I don’t believe it! it’s Scabbers!”

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione had to grab Harry by the arm and pull him back to prevent him from running to the cabin.

“Harry, no!” she hissed.

“But, that’s Pettigrew!” he said, barely keeping his voice to a hiss.

“You can’t go in there! _We_ are there, Dumbledore, Fudge and the others are about to arrive, and _we have to save Buckbeak_!” Which was complicated enough because they couldn’t take him until _after_ someone from Fudge’s party saw him, or it would seem like Hagrid had set him free and it would cause him a lot of trouble.

“It’ll be a moment!” Harry insisted, and Hermione had to pull him farther back.

“ _No, Harry_. With your temper, your past self will attack you and it won’t be _a moment_.” She put her hands on his shoulders and forced him to look at her. “We’ll try later, alright? But now? Now we save Buckbeak.”

After a long moment of stubborn silence, Harry nodded reluctantly and Hermione let go of him.

 

* * *

 

 

Hagrid stood up just when Ron had managed to get the terrified Scabbers into his pocket, all colour gone from his face.

“They’re comin’...”

They tried, though everybody present knew it would do no good, to convince Hagrid to let them stay and say what had really happened. Hermione knew, because she had read so much on the topic, that they wouldn’t even have been allowed to attend the trial to testify —she had suggested it, but the horrible laws in the wizarding world concerning magical creatures had destroyed the idea— and staying now wouldn’t change a thing.

Still, leaving without doing anything left a bitter taste in her mouth, and, when they exited through the back door and Hermione saw Buckbeak, she wanted to cry.

She threw the cloak over the three of them and noticed how Harry was shaking slightly, fists clenched tight. Whether it was from frustration, an attempt to hold himself back or a mix of the two Hermione didn’t ask. She grabbed him by the arm and they started to walk.

She looked behind to see Hagrid walk back into the cabin, accompanied by the sound of someone knocking on the front door.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco flew down to the small group of wizards waiting at Hagrid’s door. He arrived just when the door opened and, avoiding Albus altogether —Marco hadn’t gone to his office, or anywhere near him, even once since he had discovered about the horcruxes— he flew in and landed on Hagrid’s shoulder. He brushed a wing over Hagrid’s head in a supportive gesture, completely ignoring the rest of the people in the room, and Hagrid gave him a short, grateful look as he nervously allowed Albus, Fudge, the old man from the Committee and Macnair —the executioner and main reason Marco hadn’t come all the way with the group, least he clawed his eyes out— into his cabin.

“Where is the beast?” Macnair asked right away, coldly, and Marco turned his head to stare him right in the eye. He had the pleasure of seeing him twitch in slight discomfort —Marco knew just how upsetting his gaze could be in any form— before Hagrid’s stuttered response fuelled his arrogance anew.

“Out-outside.”

Fudge was more nervous than anything else when he addressed Hagrid to begin the formalities. Marco wasn’t fooled, he knew Fudge didn’t care one bit about Buckbeak, but the fact that he had to _witness_ the execution made him extremely uncomfortable.

Marco tuned them out and turned his head to stare out the window. At Buckbeak, and at who he couldn’t see due to the trees.

He had felt the appearance of Hermione and Ace with the now familiar energy that signalled the use of a time turner, and finding them there was no surprise. There had been, after all, no other reason he could think of for why they had come back in time, and he had absentmindedly noticed the Ace from the current timeline leaving this cabin as he came.

Marco was prepared to help them distract the people here if he had to.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm, just in case, when the executioner’s head appeared at the window. He stared at Buckbeak in a way that made Hermione herself want to go over there and enact a repeat of what she had done to Malfoy weeks ago, and only the knowledge that they were going to save Buckbeak —not to mention assaulting a ministry official would give her a lot of trouble— stopped her.

They heard Fudge call the man, whose name was apparently Macnair, back in to listen to the formal procedure.

“Let’s do it now,” she said. “He’s seen Buckbeak, so he can’t accuse Hagrid of freeing him if Hagrid is in there.”

“Wait here,” Harry told her, stepping out from behind the tree.

Someone else appeared at the window. Marco landed on the sill and looked straight first at Harry and then at Hermione. Hermione smiled. With all the nerves before Buckbeak’s execution, she hadn’t wondered if he had come to see Hagrid, but she should have known that he had.

It was good to know they had someone on their side inside the cabin in case something went wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco watched as Ace stepped out from behind a tree, jumped over the fence into Hagrid’s pumpkin patch and bowed to Buckbeak, following the same procedure he had been taught in the first Care of Magical Creatures class. Maybe Buckbeak, due to the stress from the past few months, would have been reluctant to acknowledge him under different circumstances, but Marco could easily feel the energy that Ace was unconsciously exuding right now. Not _awake_ , not yet, but undoubtedly something that, unleashed, could be devastating.

Haoshoku Haki.

Marco could have grinned now. It was only a matter of time before Ace had a burst strong enough to awaken the haki in him, and then they could start to train it.

The fact that Ace had never learned to use haki in his previous life was a mistake Marco refused to allow to happen again.

Buckbeak bowed right back at Ace, and Ace hurried to untie him from the fence. Buckbeak was nervous, anybody could tell that, but Ace kept eye contact at all moments, and Buckbeak let himself be drawn away from the fence.

Just as Fudge finished reading the sentence, they disappeared into the trees.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” said the member of the Committee. Marco turned to look at the group. “Hagrid, perhaps it will be better if you stay inside—”

“No, I- I wan’ ter be with him... I don’ wan’ him ter be alone—”

Marco flew back to Hagrid’s shoulder. Buckbeak was fine, but Hagrid didn’t know that yet, and he needed as much support as he could have to walk the few steps to the back door.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as Hermione saw Harry come back with Buckbeak, she gestured for them to hide behind some thick bushes. Buckbeak, thankfully, seemed calm enough, even if he was breathing very deeply, and the three of them froze when they heard the back door open. They didn’t dare poke their heads out to watch, because there was a very real risk of being seen, but they listened carefully.

“Where is it?” said the Committee member. “Where is the beast?”

“It was tied here!” growled Macnair, agitated. “I saw it! Just here!”

“How extraordinary,” said Dumbledore, and he sounded amused. Hermione wondered if maybe he, somehow, knew they were here. She wouldn’t put it past him.

“Beaky!” Hagrid breathed out, the relief on his voice so tangible that Hermione wanted to go hug him.

There was a swishing noise, followed by a thud, and Hermione realized Macnair must have struck something with his axe in frustration.

 

* * *

 

 

Ron had been struggling with Scabbers, who refused to stay quiet in his pocket, since they had found him in Hagrid’s cabin, and his struggle, that forced him to stop every couple of steps to ensure Scabbers didn’t get out, meant they hadn’t walked very far yet.

They heard a thump in the background, and they all froze.

Before him, Hermione swayed on her feet.

“They did it!” she whispered, horrified. “I d-don’t believe it... they did it!”

Harry turned on the spot and made to go to Hagrid’s cabin, but Ron caught him by the arm, letting go of Scabbers in the process. Hermione took Harry’s other arm at the same time.

“We can’t,” Ron told him, feeling sick. “He’ll be in worse trouble if they know we’ve been to see him...”

Hermione was having trouble to breathe, panting as if she had been training for a long time.

“How... could... they?” she choked. “How could they?”

“Come on,” said Ron hollowly. They had to get out of here as soon as possible.

They started to walk again.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco felt the future Ace and Hermione, plus Buckbeak, moving slowly away from the cabin, no doubt trying to make as little noise as possible to avoid being caught. Hagrid and Albus had gone inside the cabin to have a drink, as per Albus’ suggestion, but Marco stayed outside because Fudge and company had gone in, too, despite the fact that anybody with a working brain would realize that Hagrid wouldn’t want them there when he was going to celebrate Buckbeak’s escape. He would offer them drinks, though, because Hagrid was nice like that.

Marco would have kicked them out.

Marco took a moment to think. He had to start interacting with Albus again at some point, he knew, and he still didn’t know what he had intended to do with the information about the hurcruxes. Now that he was calmer, he realized he probably didn’t want to scare Ace, but was looking for a way to get the horcrux out of him safely.

Knowing what information Albus had and what books he discarded would help Marco’s own research as well.

Maybe he could go inside once the uninvited guests had left and show Hagrid and Albus that he could, and liked to, drink.

Marco froze, cursed himself for getting distracted — _again_ ; he really would have to focus on his haki constantly at this rate— and jumped into the air, flying away from the cabin.

Why the _fuck_ hadn’t Ace and Hermione even tried to tell him that _Sirius Black_ was going to show up?!

Marco had assumed they had come back in time only for Buckbeak, something that fit those brats’ character just fine.

But, _no_ , Marco had gotten distracted and now Black was _right there_ _with them_.

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

“Harry, what are you _doing_?” Hermione hissed when she noticed that Harry had turned around and was heading in a different direction.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured her, and because he knew she wouldn’t let him go otherwise, added, “no one who doesn’t know I’m here will see me.”

And he took off at a run, barrelling out of the forest at a point a little farther away from the Whomping Willow —hopefully far enough from it that he wouldn’t be seen— and closer to Hagrid’s cabin.

Harry hadn’t had much time to think about what had happened tonight, not with how fast things had progressed, but now that there had been a lull on their side of things, he had realized that there was no way Marco hadn’t noticed Sirius’ presence as soon as he had approached their past selves, and yet—

There he was.

“Marco!” he called, and he knew, by how fast he had been flying, that the only reason Marco stopped and approached him was because Harry was the one calling him. “Sirius is innocent,” Harry said immediately to ensure that Marco didn’t decide to go after all.

Sure enough, that had Marco landing and transforming. He stayed crouched down and stared at Harry.

“What?”

“He didn’t betray my parents, he wasn’t the secret keeper,” Harry said, but didn’t elaborate anymore, pointing in the direction of the willow instead. “He has to get, well, _past us_ to the Shrieking Shack so he can explain.”

Marco didn’t ask if he was sure, serious, or anything like that, which Harry was grateful for because what he was saying sounded plain insane —Snape had taken advantage precisely of that, and that idiot Fudge had believed Snape’s version instead of the truth.

“Will you listen to him?” was what Marco asked, and Harry scoffed.

“No. You have to stop me from killing him. Wait a minute or so after Hermione and I, past us that is, manage to get through the passage and follow, alright?”

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione wasn’t really surprised when Harry returned with Marco. She had realized that Marco must have felt Sirius after Harry had left, and immediately felt stupid for not wondering why he had taken so long to arrive.

“How are things going?” Harry asked, crouching next to her.

Instead of answering, she pointed to the Whomping Willow, that was now trying to crush past Harry with its branches. He, naturally, rolled out of the way and attempted to get past them one more time, but didn’t manage it. Watching the events play before her with the knowledge that they had survived, Hermione had allowed herself to be more analytical, and realized the only reason Sirius had been able to take Ron so easily had been because he had caught them so off guard.

“You know,” Harry said conversationally, “I would’ve enjoyed that a lot more if I hadn’t been so worried about Ron.”

Hermione scoffed. Of course Harry would focus on that.

“The willow isn’t that interesting to fight,” Marco added his two cents, “it’s too slow.”

“For you, maybe, but I’m not that fast yet,” Harry countered, and Hermione decided to ignore them.

Crookshanks had already immobilized the tree, and their past selves finally managed to get into the tunnel.

Now they only had to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

They followed Crookshanks, who somehow had known how to immobilize the Whomping Willow, through a narrow tunnel, wands drawn out and illuminating their path while they looked for any signal of Ron’s presence. Or that damned dog.

Harry remembered this tunnel was on the Marauders’ Map, and, while the other side wasn’t visible, it had seemed to lead into Hogsmeade. Fred and George had said nobody had ever used it before, but it had just occurred to Harry that, at the very least, the Marauders _must_ have used it if they had known about it and where it led.

Finally, the tunnel started to go up, signalling they were nearing the other exit.

They came out into an old and dusty room with the floor stained, the paper on the walls peeling, the windows boarded and every single piece of furniture broken.

In the moment it took them to look around, Crookshanks disappeared through an open door to the right.

They looked at one another. Hermione was clearly scared, but she nodded and they headed for the door. It led into a darkened and downright creepy hallway with equally boarded windows worthy of a bad horror movie. By the way Hermione moved closer to him, she must have agreed with his thought.

“Harry,” she whispered, “I think we’re in the Shrieking Shack.”

Harry nodded. He had only seen it from relatively afar, but he couldn’t think of any other building in all of Hogsmeade that could fit what he was seeing.

“I bet it wasn’t ghosts that were here,” he said, because every Hogwarts student had enough experience with ghosts to realize they couldn’t cause the wreckage that surrounded them.

They turned their heads up when there was a creak above. Harry looked at Hermione, who nodded at him, and they continued, finally reaching the crumpling staircase. They climbed it carefully, attempting to do as little noise as possible, but that didn’t stop most of the steps from creaking beneath their feet.

Whatever awaited them, their arrival would be no surprise.

Once upstairs, they cancelled the light spells from their wands and headed for the only open door at the landing.

Exchanging a final nod with Hermione, Harry pushed the door open the rest of the way with his free hand.

Ron was sitting on the floor, leaning against an old and dusty bed, clutching his leg. A leg that was bent at a painful-looking awkward angle, clearly broken. Laying on the bed above him was Crookshanks, who purred when he saw them.

Harry and Hermione ran to Ron, calling his name.

“Ron! Are you okay?” asked Hermione, crouching next to him.

“Where’s the dog?” Harry asked at the same time, much more pragmatic, because this had been the only door open, and he didn’t see another way out other than the door.

“Not a dog,” Ron grit out through his teeth, voice pained. “Harry, it’s a trap—”

“What?”

“He’s the dog... he’s an Animagus...” Ron said, looking over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turned around.

Right them, someone closed the door. A filthy, emaciated man stood there, a mirthless grin showing all his yellow teeth. He raised Ron’s wand and disarmed Harry and Hermione.

Harry paid no mind to it.

He saw red.

With a wordless scream, he launched himself at Sirius Black.

 

* * *

 

 

Kneeling next to him, Hermione gasped in horror. Ron stared, astonished, as Harry tackled Black, punching him in the face with such strength that they both tumbled to the floor and the wands fell from Black’s hands. Without pausing to take a breath, Harry started to punch him again and again, all the while yelling words so garbled Ron could barely make out any of them. Black tried to fend him off, but it would have been impossible as a healthy adult. As he was now, Harry shoved his hands aside easily whenever they got in the way and continued to assault him.

Ron looked at Hermione. She was staring at the scene with the same horrified realization that Ron himself felt. Harry had said from the start that he wanted to kill Black and, while they had known, they hadn’t fully _realized_ what he meant. Now they knew. Harry was going to murder Sirius Black, here and now, before their eyes. And there was nothing they could do to stop him. Because Harry was completely out of it, he was using a level of speed and strength that they couldn’t hope to stop.

All they could do was sit there.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco flew down the tunnel once Hermione said enough time had passed. He wouldn’t have stopped if it hadn’t been for Ace’s words, but Marco had felt there was no spell affecting him. Whatever had happened —was going to happen— at the shack was something no one had seen coming.

As he approached, he could feel that the Ace and Hermione from this time had already reached Ron. There was Sirius Black, too, and Marco had to repress a shudder —Ace had said he was innocent, so he hadn’t betrayed the Potters, and Marco _trusted_ Ace— and there were two animal presences... no, _one_ animal presence, and another that would almost have passed for one in most cases. But it wasn’t, Marco realized. It was a person, the very weak presence of a person that was barely felt amongst all the others, one that Marco would have ignored if it wasn’t because... because next to Black it triggered his memory and he could put a name to it.

_Well, fuck._

It was weak, much weaker than he remembered it being —not that it had ever been strong to begin with— but it was undeniable that Peter Pettigrew was in that room.

Now history took an entirely different shape in Marco’s mind.

He could hear Ace’s voice as soon as he exited the tunnel, though understanding what he was yelling was an entirely different story. Yes, Ace had said he would have to stop him from killing Black. Marco rushed out the room and up the stairs, and wasn’t surprised when he entered the room where the group was and was met by the sight of Ace beating the living daylights out of Black.

Marco flew at Ace and tackled him to the side, pushing him off Black and landing on his chest so that he couldn’t move.

“Wh-WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN?!” Ace yelled at him as soon as he had shaken off the confusion, and tried to shove him off. Marco didn’t move. He shook his head, but Ace was too upset to pay attention. “Get off! I said I’m gonna _kill him_!”

Marco raised a wing and whacked him on the head. It wasn’t too hard, just enough to make Ace stop and blink in confusion before he was back to glaring at him.

“F-Fawkes?” Hermione asked, and Marco was glad that she had the necessary presence of mind to use that name. He wasn’t sure about Black, given the current circumstances —because he knew now that the other Ace had come back in time for him, too, not just Buckbeak— but he sure as hell didn’t want Pettigrew learning his name.

Pettigrew, who was in the hands of a very sick-looking Ron. A rat.

 _Double fuck_ , Marco thought, growling mentally, because it would be just their luck that the rat was none other than Scabbers. Marco had to wonder how much the little shit knew.


	31. The truth

Hermione’s voice had Harry whip his head around, ignoring Marco for just a moment. She was still where he had left her, kneeling next to Ron, but now both of them looked like they wanted to throw up. Harry felt suddenly sick. He had lost sight of everything other than Black in his rage. If Marco hadn’t intervened, he would have killed Black right there before his friends’ eyes. Friends who were just kids and in no way ready to witness something like that.

Just for that reason, Harry forced himself to calm down and turned back to Marco.

“What do you want, Fawkes?” he asked, the words somewhat growled out. He used the name to tell Marco he wasn’t going to blow his cover.

Marco pointed at him. More accurately, at his ears, and then he pointed at Black.

“What?” Harry asked, not sure he understood. Marco repeated the movements in clear exasperation. “You want me to listen to him?”

Marco nodded, and, had he been in human form, Harry was sure he would have crossed his arms. Harry frowned. He didn’t want to listen to whatever Black had to say, but the fact that Marco was here made him pause. If he had stopped Harry simply so that Ron and Hermione didn’t witness the murder, he would have signalled something like ‘wait’ or ‘let them leave first’, but instead he was telling him to _listen_. Which made Harry think he might be missing something here, because Marco had wanted to kill Black as much as Harry had.

He nodded reluctantly.

“Get off, then.”

Marco did, but not without giving Harry a look that told him in no unclear terms that if he tried anything he would be on his ass before he managed to land the first blow.

Marco moved to perch next to Crookshanks on the bed —Crookshanks gave him a suspicious look, but decided to ignore him in favour of watching them all.

Harry turned to Black, who had just managed to sit up and had a stunned expression on his face.

“Talk,” Harry ordered him, “but if you try anything funny I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Black, sounding pained —Harry felt a surge of vindictive pleasure at that— but then he grinned, “there’ll be only one murder here tonight.”

Harry wanted to say something like ‘yes, yours’, but held it in. He was trying to listen to Marco here.

“Really? Who?”

But before Black could answer, they all heard the same creaking sounds the stairs had made when Harry and Hermione climbed them.

Harry turned to the bed to check on Marco —he was calm, that meant he knew who it was and it wasn’t a threat. Good.

Then Hermione snapped out of whatever shock she had been in and yelled at the top of her lungs.

“WE’RE UP HERE! WE’RE UP HERE! SIRIUS BLACK... QUICK!”

“Hermione—!” Harry started, trying to stop her —she had no idea of who was coming, it could be a threat for all she knew— but stopped. She had already done it, it didn’t matter now what he told her. He would talk to her about asking for help from unknown presences later.

Black turned his head to the door, startled, and Ron moved as if to try to stand, but he luckily didn’t.

They waited in tense silence as they heard the steps quicken on the stairs. The door to the room burst open and none other than Professor Lupin, wand raised, entered. He took in the whole room with a quick sweep of his eyes: Ron and Hermione on the floor, his eyebrows went momentarily up at the phoenix on the bed next to the cat, Harry standing in the middle of the room and Black sitting on the floor, noticeably bruised from Harry’s beating.

“What happened to you?” Lupin asked, surprised, and lowered his wand a little. Harry would have been surprised, but he already suspected he was missing information about Black here.

“Harry beat me up,” Black announced, and Harry raised his eyebrows. Was it just him, or Black had sounded _pleased_? Was he some sort of masochist?

Lupin gave Black and incredulous look, then his eyes moved to Harry. Harry grinned and showed him his slightly bloodied knuckles.

Lupin blinked, shook his head and turned back to Black.

“Where is he, Sirius?” he asked, sounding tense.

Now it was Harry’s turn to feel surprised. Was there supposed to be someone else aside from them in this room? His eyes turned to Marco, for a moment dreading that Lupin had seen him on the map, but Marco shook his head and looked at Ron. No, not at Ron: at the terrified rat cowering beneath Ron’s robes.

Harry’s eyes opened as wide as they could, and he looked at Marco again. ‘Animagus?’ he mouthed out, and Marco nodded.

But then Lupìn was speaking again, and Harry looked at him.

“But then...” he muttered, his eyes fixed on Black. He looked very conflicted “...Why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless...” his eyes widened in realization, and Harry had a feeling he probably wouldn’t like whatever Lupin was thinking, “unless he was the one... unless you switched... without telling me?”

 _Switched?_ Harry thought, confused. He was trying to draw a meaning for it, but he didn’t like the scenario the information he had about Black was shaping in his mind. He looked at Marco, again, who was staring at Black intently.

“You mean the secret keeper?” Harry interrupted, hoping for all he was worth to be wrong.

Black and Lupin turned to look at him, confused.

“You know?” Black asked, surprised. Harry nodded. Black averted his eyes. “It seemed a good idea, back then.”

Lupin lowered his wand completely, walked up to Black and extended a hand to help him up. As soon as Black was on his feet, he embraced him. Close, fierce, and nearly desperate, as if it was something he had never expected he would do again. Harry knew that feeling.

“I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” Hermione screamed before anyone else could react, jumping to her feet and pointing at Lupin with a trembling hand. Lupin let go of Black and looked at her. “You... you—”

“Hermione—”

“You and him!”

Harry grimaced, because that was _exactly_ what he would have thought if it wasn’t for Marco. Only that he would have attacked Lupin by now.

“Hermione, calm down—” Lupin started again, placating, but she ignored him.

“I didn’t tell anyone!” she shrieked, and now Harry’s curiosity was piqued. Tell what? “I’ve been covering up for you—”

“Hermione, listen to me, please!” Lupin insisted. “I can explain—”

Harry’s eyes moved to Ron, who looked as confused as he was. Marco had bent his head forward in a distinctly exasperated gesture.

“NO!” Hermione interrupted him. “Harry, don’t trust him,” she said, perhaps thinking that some kind of trust in Lupin was why Harry hadn’t attacked him, “he’s been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too! He’s a werewolf!”

 

* * *

 

 

Marco slammed a wing over his head in the closest gesture he could manage to running a hand over his face in this form. _Of all the things she could say..._ Hermione obviously didn’t realize it, but that was the worst one she could have chosen.

Silence filled the room. While Ron and Lupin had gone pale and Black had tensed up, Ace only blinked.

“Oh, so that was it?” Everybody turned to look at him, confused. “What? There was obviously something going on.”

“Harry, that’s not the point,” Hermione told him, her eyes darting nervously to Lupin and Black as if trying to convey the urgency of the situation.

“I know,” Ace said, “I’m just ignoring your _point_.”

“But, Harry—“

“No,” he cut her off, deadly serious. “You can be angry that he hugged Black and say he’s helping him because of that,” Lupìn started, as if to protest, but Ace didn’t give him the chance, “that’s okay, it makes sense. But you can’t use _what he is_ as an argument to call him a bad guy.”

Marco saw the exact moment realization dawned on Hermione. She gasped, and raised a hand to cover her mouth, horrified.

“Oh!”

“So,” Ace continued, turning to Lupin and Black, “you two better explain what the hell is going on before I decide to just kill him anyway,” he demanded, pointing at Black.

Lupin and Black looked at one another, noticeably confused —they probably hadn’t expected Ace’s disregard for the fact that Lupin was a werewolf, not when it was such a big deal in the wizarding world that even ever-tolerant Hermione had allowed herself to be influenced by the prejudice.

“Harry, don’t listen to them,” this time it was Ron who said it, his eyes fixed on Lupin. Having grown as a wizard, the fear and discrimination had been a part of his upbringing to the point where he seemed to be more wary of a werewolf than of an alleged mass murderer.

Marco sighed.

Realizing that Ron and Hermione would need some measure of reassurance —Ron looked ready to bolt despite his broken leg, and Hermione was still very strung out, even if her guilt was keeping her silent for now— Marco jumped off the bed and swept down on the forgotten wands. He dropped Ace’s first, on his head, and then Ron and Hermione’s before where they were sitting and standing respectively. They hurried to take them, even Ace did.

“That’s a good idea...” Lupin muttered, looking at Marco. Then he placed his own wand into his belt with an unnecessary slow gesture. “There. We’re not armed,” he said this looking at Ron first, then Hermione and finally he turned to Ace. “It’s a long story, and most of it isn’t mine.” He darted a look at Black, at this.

Ace nodded.

“I guessed. Did you see us on the map?”

“Yes. I suspected you three would go visit Hagrid before the execution,” he started, and Marco felt suddenly relieved that he had decided not to go with them, “and I was right, wasn’t I?”

Ace just shrugged

“You might have been wearing your father’s old cloak, Harry—”

“How do you know about the cloak?” Ron asked, suspicious, and Marco realized Ace hadn’t told his friends about the Marauders.

“He’s one of the Marauders. They both are,” Ace answered, to general astonishment. “Just like my father and Peter Pettigrew.” Black frowned at the name, glaring at the bulge in Ron’s robes. Pettigrew increased his attempts at escaping upon hearing his name.

“How do you know?” Lupin asked, surprised. He clearly hadn’t expected that.

“Someone told me,” Ace said with another shrug. “Continue. You saw us. And I’m guessing you saw the rat.”

They were even more surprised now.

“Scabbers?” Ron asked, confused, before either Lupin or Black knew what to say.

“Yeah. _Scabbers_ ,” Ace replied, turning around to look at Ron. It was clear, by the way he had said the name and the frown on his face, that he was eager to know just who the rat really was. Taking advantage of the fact neither Black nor Lupin could see his face like that —and the damn rat was still buried beneath Ron’s robes— Ace very pointedly flicked his eyes up to Marco. Ron moved his head, and Hermione’s hand darted out to rest on his shoulder, effectively distracting him before he could look at Marco.

“You have guessed a lot,” Lupin observed, impressed. They turned to look at him. “Yes, I noticed him, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.” He had started to pace around the room now. “I thought the map must be malfunctioning. How could he be with you? And then I saw another dot, moving fast toward you, labelled Sirius Black... I saw him collide with you; I watched as he pulled two of you into the Whomping Willow...” Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione, who by now was absorbed by what was going on and had forgotten her previous mistrust of Lupin, shushed him. “And that is when I decided to come.”

“I don’t understand,” Ron said finally, looking from Lupin to a deadly serious Ace. “What’s Scabbers got to do with it? He’s a rat.”

“Animals don’t appear on the map, Ron,” Ace said, drawing a quick glance from Lupin and Black again.

“Exactly,” continued Lupin, “but Scabbers is not just a rat.”

“What?” Ron asked again.

“Could I see him, please?” Lupin asked him, taking a step closer. Ron tried to crawl backwards, but he was already leaning on the bed. Lupin sighed and didn’t move any more.

After looking around —at Ace, Hermione and even at Marco— Ron sighed and, very gingerly, brought the wildly thrashing Pettigrew from his robes. Ron had to hold him by the tail so he wouldn’t escape.

Ignoring Ron’s discomfort, Lupin leaned closer to take a better look. He straightened up and turned to look at Black, whose eyes had fixated on Pettigrew the moment he had appeared. Black was barely managing to stay in place.

“That’s an animagus,” Black said, “by the name of Peter Pettigrew.”

Marco froze. He ignored the conversation as Ace and Lupin tried to calm Ron’s reaction, because someone had just exited the tunnel downstairs. Someone he could recognize very easily.

 _Oh, fuck, what is he doing here?_ he thought, looking at Ace. But this wasn’t the Ace that had travelled back in time, so Marco couldn’t demand to know why the hell he hadn’t told him that Severus was going to show up. Marco looked around. He couldn’t leave, not with Pettigrew, Black and the mess that was going on right now. It seemed that Ace still hadn’t connected all the dots —he was too calm right now— but once he did Marco would have to stop him. Marco may not be a fan of Sirius Black by any stretch of the word, but if he was innocent he didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his life running to avoid landing back in Azkaban because they had killed the only proof that he was innocent. Besides, Marco knew, there would be no persuading Severus to go back, not when, if he was here, it meant he had seen something that had made him decide to walk down a tunnel that brought back such bad memories. Like Lupin coming in.

Perhaps listening to the story would make Severus realize that taking care of Pettigrew was the main priority at the moment.

Marco nearly scoffed.

Well, miracles did happen sometimes.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione wasn’t sure what to think anymore. Here were Sirius Black and Professor Lupin —she refused to think he was a werewolf, she felt ashamed of herself that she had thought it proved he was guilty of anything— claiming that Scabbers, Ron’s boring and pretty much useless rat, was none other than Peter Pettigrew, a man that had been dead for twelve years. A death witnessed by dozens of people. It was _ridiculous._ Or it would be if Marco didn’t apparently back their claim.

She looked at Marco questioningly, but he seemed distracted.

Anyway, Hermione had already learned that disregarding Marco’s haki was a mistake. And, looking at Scabbers, he _did_ look excessively terrified.

“But Pettigrew’s dead!” Ron, shaking his head repeatedly, exclaimed. “He killed him!” He pointed at Black, who was glowering at Scabbers.

“I meant to,” Black snarled, baring his teeth and looking even more deranged than he had up until now, “but little Peter got the better of me... not this time, though!”

He moved forward, but Lupin was faster and caught him.

“Sirius, NO! WAIT! We have to explain!” he yelled, pushing Black back. “You can’t just kill him like that.”

Looking from the enraged Black, to the barely controlled Professor Lupin and to the terrified Scabbers, Hermione thought she was beginning to understand what Professor Lupin wanted to explain. She didn’t like it one bit.

Hermione looked at Harry, who was standing very still, fists clenched at his sides, and she was sure his mind was going in a similar direction than hers.

“Ehm, Professor Lupin?” she called. “Mr. Black? You might want to hurry.”

She pointed at Harry when they looked at her, and Black gave up his struggle.

“What happened to my parents?” Harry asked, in a very controlled voice. It was terrifying, even more than his previous rage. He looked about to explode.

That drew Black’s attention. He didn’t seem worried that Harry would attack him again —a mistake, given what had happened— but he looked at him for a moment before returning his eyes to Scabbers, who by now had moved on to biting and scratching as a way to try to escape. Hermione grimaced at the mess that were now Ron’s hands, but Ron didn’t seem to care, he was still holding on.

“We had been warned of a threat to your family,” Lupin started, and Hermione’s mind immediately went to the prophecy. No one mentioned it, so she didn’t, either. She wondered if Professor Lupin and Black even knew about it. “Your parents decided to go into hiding. There is a spell, the _fidelius_ , that is the safest way to protect a house.”

“We know about it,” Hermione cut him, and explained. “We overheard the Minister of Magic talking to some professors at The Three Broomsticks.”

“Oh, so is that how you learned about Sirius’ supposed reasons?” Lupin asked, and Hermione shrugged. It wasn’t true, but it was good to have a cover story. Professor Lupin was smart, and Black must be, too, if he was an animagus, they would probably start questioning Harry’s knowledge once the night was over.

Nodding, Lupin continued his tale.

“We all believed Sirius to be the secret keeper. It was what made sense, he was James’ best friend, and he would die before giving them away. But...” Here, Lupin hesitated and looked at Black. “It seems they switched.”

For a moment, Black looked down, before focusing his gaze back on Scabbers.

“It was I who thought about the change. It seemed perfect. I’d go into hiding, everybody would assume it was me... Voldemort would look for me, and Peter would be overlooked. Who would think it was him, when he had no outstanding talents, when he wasn’t very powerful?” He closed his eyes, looking greatly pained, before turning them on Harry. “I as well as handed Lily and James over to Voldemort. You aren’t wrong in blaming me.”

But Harry just shook his head. Hermione knew he wouldn’t blame Black for it, not when it was so plain to see he had only had the best intentions at heart.

“Why didn’t you tell Professor Lupin?” Hermione asked.

Professor Lupin smiled humourlessly.

“For the same reason you assumed I was helping Sirius, I imagine. We had known there was a spy amongst us for a while, and, being a werewolf, I was the main suspect.”

Now Black looked ashamed.

“I’m sorry I suspected you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Professor Lupin answered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry I believed you had betrayed them.”

 

* * *

 

 

“How long did it take?” Harry asked, making a conscious effort to control his breathing. He wanted — _needed_ — to know, to understand what had happened to his parents before he acted. He had almost killed an innocent man already, he wanted to be sure he got the real culprit this time.

It was Black who continued.

“The night your parents died, I’d gone to check on Peter, to make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he was gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared, so set out for your parents’ house straight away. And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies... I realized what Peter must have done... what I’d done...” he broke off, and for just a moment Harry had a flash back to another life, to the guilt of making a decision that backfired and cost everybody more than it should ever have been sacrificed.

He dug his nails into his right hand to focus.

“You tracked him down?” he guessed. That was what Harry would have done. What he had done, in fact, so long ago.

Black nodded.

“I cornered him in an alley. He started to yell, for the whole street to hear, that I had betrayed Lily and James. Before I could react, he cut his own toe off —you’ve heard, haven’t you? That’s the largest part they found of him— and blasted the street. I didn’t even know he could _do_ that. He killed all those people and took advantage of the chaos to transform and disappear down the sewer.”

There was a choked sound to his side, and Harry turned to see that Ron had blanched considerably, and was now looking down at Scabbers. More precisely, at Scabbers’ missing toe. By now, Harry was sure Ron’s denial was more than dead.

“After that, as you all know, I went to prison. I didn’t go mad, not like everyone else, because the dementors feed on happy memories and hope, but I was too consumed by my own guilt and rage to experience any of those. I also spent most of my time in my dog form, which dulled the emotions I did feel. The dementors never noticed: they are blind, and no doubt thought I’d simply gone mad like all other prisoners.”

“That is debatable,” a new voice spoke. They all turned to the door —which was open now, and Harry really hadn’t even noticed when it had happened, so focused as he had been on everything else— and saw, to Harry’s mounting horror, how Severus Snape appeared out of nowhere.

Harry’s invisibility cloak fell, discarded, to the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Severus was completely out of his mind. It was no surprise, really, given his history with the Marauders in general, and Sirius Black in particular, but Marco had hoped he would be focused enough to notice the details that, even without being able to feel Pettigrew’s presence to back the story up, signalled that Black wasn’t as insane as he might sound.

Apparently not.

Marco didn’t move. He didn’t want to attack Severus, aware that if he did it was unlikely he would ever be forgiven —and Severus was so out of it he didn’t even seem to have noticed Marco’s presence on the bed— but he couldn’t do anything to help him, either, because he was set on sending Black and Lupin to the dementors.

Marco watched him tie Lupin up, threaten Black and yell at Hermione when she tried to reason with him. He counted in his head, and, sure enough, it wasn’t long before Ace snapped. The _expelliarmus_ was so powerful that not only did Severus’ wand fly out of his hand, but he was blasted into the wall and lost consciousness, whether from the spell or the hit to the head was hard to say.

Marco looked at Ace, because he knew Ace had used the spell as a way to let out some of the tension that had been coursing through his body.

Ace glared at him, and Marco was sure he barely held back from demanding why Marco hadn’t warned him of Severus’ presence.

 

* * *

 

 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Black said, but he sounded impressed. “You should have left him to me.”

Harry didn’t point out that Snape had been armed while Black wasn’t.

“Well, I did it, so...” he waved a hand, feeling somewhat less tense.

“Thank you,” Black said, and the first expression that might have been a smile instead of a deranged grin crossed his face.

There was a short silence, broken, to no one’s surprise, by Hermione.

“How did you know where Pettigrew was?”

“It was Fudge,” Black answered, rummaging in his tattered robes until he found a crumpled piece of paper. He showed it to them, and Harry recognized it as the picture from the Daily Prophet that had appeared last summer announcing the prize Ron’s family had won. “He came to inspect the prison, and I saw him with the newspaper. He gave it to me when I asked. The article said the boy would be returning to Hogwarts.” He pointed to the Ron in the picture, and there was Scabbers — _Pettigrew_ — perched on his shoulder. “I saw him transform so many times...” Black continued, crumpling the picture again and shoving it into his pocket. “I recognized him instantly.”

“And you escaped... how?” Harry asked, curious despite everything else. By all accounts, what he had heard about Azkaban portrayed it as not so different from Impel Down, and it didn’t look like Black had done something as insane as what the pirate who had escaped Impel Down twenty years before Luffy’s assault, Shiki, had. Black still had his legs attached.

As it turned out, he had used his animagus form to escape.

Transforming into an animal was proving to have a lot of advantages, and without the downside of a Zoan type devil fruit.

 

* * *

 

 

Now that she knew Black wasn’t a crazy mass murderer —and the real crazy mass murderer was too busy panicking in tiny rat form and had a very powerful phoenix ready to jump at him if he broke free— Hermione had some questions. Truthfully, she had _a lot_ of questions, but some were more pressing than others. Namely, the ones that would fill in the gaps of what had been happening this last year.

She hadn’t been ready, however, to learn that _Crookshanks_ had helped Black get into the castle. Crookshanks, who apparently had realized from the start that Black wasn’t a dog —at this, Harry took advantage of the fact that he had turned to look at Crookshanks to give Marco a raised eyebrow, and Hermione wondered if Crookshanks had realized Marco was human, too— and once he had decided to trust him had started to help. It had been Crookshanks who had stolen Neville’s passwords, and his knowledge the reason he had been trying to get Pettigrew. Hermione was really proud of him at the moment.

Also, Black had been to all of Harry’s quidditch matches, not just the first one, and Hermione felt really relieved that Marco hadn’t been to the others. She was sure that without Pettigrew there to show things weren’t as everybody had believed Harry and Marco would have killed Black without giving him a chance to speak first.

“Now, if we’re done, Remus,” Black said impatiently once Hermione had asked everything that couldn’t wait, “I want to commit the murder I was imprisoned for.”

Scabbers —Pettigrew— panicked further at that, but Ron gave him to Professor Lupin with a relieved sigh. Black fetched Professor Snape’s wand and joined Professor Lupin.

“What are you going to do?” Hermione asked when Professor Lupin took his wand from his belt.

“Force him to show himself,” Lupin explained. Then he turned to Black. “Together?”

Black nodded.

“On the count of three.” Lupin held Scabbers out, where he could let go easily. “One, two, three!”

Hermione closed her eyes when a bright flash of light erupted from the wands. When she opened them a moment later it was just in time to see Scabbers drop to the floor. Another bright flash of light that Hermione was able to keep her eyes open through and there was a man —short, balding and whose features were reminiscent of his rat form— standing where Scabbers had been, drawn into himself and wringing his hands together.

Suddenly it wasn’t hard at all to use the name Pettigrew for him. She had known it was him, but a part of her brain had still found it hard to refer to the rat by that name. Not anymore.

“Well, hello, Peter,” Professor Lupin greeted him pleasantly, and Hermione found it disturbing he could use such a nice voice for a man he had to hate immensely. “Long time no see.”

“S-Sirius... R-Remus...” Pettigrew stuttered, and his eyes darted to the door. “My friends... my old friends...”

Black raised his wand arm, but professor Lupin stopped him and gave him a warning look. Whatever either of them were going to say was lost when a loud thump had them turn their attention away from Pettigrew. Harry was back on the floor, with Marco on his chest very clearly holding him down.

“Oh, COME ON!” Harry yelled at him, and again tried to shove him off with no results. “GET OFF! HE KILLED MY PARENTS!”

But Marco ignored him, and the puzzled looks around. He looked directly at Hermione’s eyes instead, pointed at Pettigrew with one of his wings and then pointed at Black. Harry fell silent, but kept glaring at Marco.

“What?” Black asked, annoyed. He was still keeping an eye on Pettigrew, and the hand holding the wand twitched when Pettigrew moved.

“I...” Hermione started, unsure of what Marco was trying to say. Marco repeated the gesture, and it suddenly dawned on her. “Oh!” She turned to look at Professor Lupin.

“Professor! If you kill him, what will happen afterwards?!”

Professor Lupin faltered, as if he hadn’t thought about it.

“Well, we will hide or destroy his body, of course.” Because they couldn’t have Harry —or Professor Lupin himself— be arrested for murder.

“And what will happen to Mr. Black then?”

Professor Lupin’s eyes widened, and Hermione knew that in the heat of his anger and the discoveries of the night he hadn’t thought about the consequences of what they were about to do.

He turned to Black.

“Sirius—“

But Hermione didn’t let them speak. She turned to talk to Harry instead.

“He will still be a fugitive, on the run forever. But, if we hand Pettigrew in, he will be acquitted. Won’t he?”

Professor Lupin nodded. Pettigrew, who had been looking hopeful since Marco had tackled Harry, blanched.

“N-No... You can’t do that... Don’t you see... Can’t you see this is all madness?!”

Harry wasn’t paying attention to him. He was looking at Marco instead.

“What would happen if we turned him in?”

“With what he did,” Professor Lupin answered, looking at Pettigrew speculatively, “and the public so worried about this case after everything that has happened this last year, it’s very likely he will be given the dementor’s kiss.”

Pettigrew whined, terrified, and started to stammer out protests, but Hermione wasn’t looking for his reaction. She was looking to see how Harry took all this. Finally, Harry pushed Marco off —Marco let him— and sat up. He met Black’s eyes.

“It’s up to you. I want him dead, but if the dementors do it that works for me. You’re the one most affected by how he dies, so you choose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, because book 3 is my least favourite I hadn't read it again in years (my memory of it depended mostly on fanfiction xD), so I'd forgotten many details.  
> Re-reading the shrieking shack scene to write this I've come to dislike Lupin. I get that he was afraid of losing his friends as a kid and all that, and I've always thought him a little spineless for not standing up to the bullying when he clearly didn't support it, but here I've come to see an entirely different level to it. Here, he tried to 'explain' Severus' hatred of James by saying he thought Severus was jealous about James' skills in quidditch. Plus, of course, commenting on how Severus was angry at Sirius' prank (you know, when Sirius purposely let Severus learn where Lupin went every month and how to get past the Whomping Willow so he'd go when the werewolf was there). REALLY, ROWLING?! Fuck, I HATE that. It got me really angry when I read it.  
> Okay, Severus tried to give back as good as he got, and things escalated a lot later on (I'm not one of the people that paint him as a saint, because spells like Sectumsempra prove that he wasn't), but that doesn't change the fact that James and Sirius started it, or that they actively targeted him. Not to mention how out of control and unjustifiable many of their actions were.  
> It's because he justifies and minimizes things like this that I can't like Lupin.


	32. The rescue operation

They were a strange group. Finally, Black had decided that as long as Pettigrew died, the method by which he did was irrelevant —the fact that Pettigrew was clearly more afraid of the dementors than he was of Black himself had helped convince him— and they had decided their best course of action was to go back to the castle.

They had tied Pettigrew, and Black had made it very clear he would kill him if Pettigrew transformed. To be on the safe side, Professor Lupin and Ron had shackled themselves to Pettigrew with conjured chains. Harry had offered to do it himself, but Hermione had vetoed the idea, claiming that he could lose his temper if he was in such close proximity to the still whimpering Pettigrew. Which was a valid point.

Lupin had strapped Ron’s leg to make a splint so that he could move until they could bring him to Madam Pomfrey, because Lupin had said he wasn’t very good with the kind of healing spell that Ron needed.

Crookshanks was first out of the door, followed by the chained Lupin, Pettigrew and Ron. Snape, still unconscious, followed, floating in the air thanks to a spell Harry had never seen before. Black was the one directing him, and at first he had made Snape “accidentally” hit the steps with his feet and occasionally his head, but Marco had hit Black on the head and Harry had advised him to stop, though he personally didn’t care much for Snape’s wellbeing. Walking behind Black, with Marco flying next to them, were Harry and Hermione.

Entering the tunnel was complicated, mainly for Lupin, Pettigrew and Ron, but they managed. Lupin’s wand didn’t waver, pointing at Pettigrew at all times as they moved.

The rest followed more easily. Snape hit his head against the low ceiling once, and Harry raised a hand to stop Marco.

“Mr. Black... Sirius, you’d better stop that. He’s about to beat the shit out of you.”

Behind Harry, Hermione gasped, but Sirius didn’t seem to mind Harry’s vocabulary.

“Nothing new there,” Sirius muttered. “You know,” he continued conversationally, “I never expected that bird to help me on anything.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, giving Sirius a sidelong glance. Harry had no trouble walking down the uneven path, and kept his eyes mostly trained on Pettigrew ahead of them.

“Because he spent the seven years I was at Hogwarts targeting me for no reason,” Sirius answered grumpily.

Harry grinned.

“I think he had a reason.” Before Sirius could ask what he was talking about, Harry explained a little. “I’ve seen him prank some people around, and he seems to do it when they do something he doesn’t like.”

Sirius gave him a sceptical look.

“Like what?”

Harry shrugged, and thought which of Marco’s pranks he could mention without giving him away. Then it came to him.

“Back in Christmas, for example. Dumbledore played a little prank on someone.” Here Harry stopped, because he had almost said Marco’s real name. “Fawkes didn’t like it, it seems, because he kept stealing Dumbledore’s sweets for weeks after that.”

“Really?” Sirius asked, giving Marco a dubious look. “How do you know?”

Harry grinned innocently.

“Because we’re friends, and he knows I like sweets.”

Sirius laughed incredulously, but he was clearly amused that Harry had been eating Dumbledore’s sweets as if it was a normal occurrence.

They were silent for maybe a minute before Sirius spoke again.

“Harry... I don’t know if anyone ever told you, but I’m your godfather.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” answered Harry, noticing how nervous Sirius was.

“Well... your parents appointed me your guardian,” Sirius continued. “If anything happened to them...”

Harry guessed what he wanted to offer. In any other circumstances —had Harry still been subjected to the Dursleys the way he had been before going to Hogwarts— he would have jumped at the idea, but now he was more cautious.

“Not that I’m a fan of my relatives or anything,” he said, saving Sirius the awkwardness of continuing, “but I think I’d like to get to know you first.”

“Eh?” Sirius looked at him, confused.

Harry grinned sheepishly.

“I know you’re not a mass murderer now, and that’s good, but we don’t really know each other, do we?”

“No, you’re right,” Sirius agreed. He looked puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure what to think of what Harry meant.

“So,” Harry grinned, “you could drop by Privet Drive or something and we can hang out. Bet Uncle Vernon would _love_ that.” He would love it so much that he might need to pay a visit to the hospital.

“I’ve been there, you know?” Sirius said suddenly.

“Huh? Where?”

“At Privet Drive. I saw you leave your relatives’ house when that woman floated out of the house like a balloon.”

It took a moment for Harry to make the connection.

“Wait! You were that dog that followed me?!”

“Sirius nodded with a grin.

“I also watched your quidditch matches. You fly as well as James did.”

 

* * *

 

 

Marco stopped listening when Black confirmed he had followed Ace that night. To the apartment. That meant Black knew its location, and Marco wasn’t sure what to think about it. He may not be the traitor everybody thought him to be, but that didn’t mean Marco suddenly trusted Sirius Black. Aside from the fact that there could be lingering damage to his mind from Azkaban despite the protection Black’s animagus form had given him against the dementors, there was the fact that Marco had never liked him much when Black had been a student.

Right now, he didn’t like the idea that Sirius Black could show up at the apartment at any given moment.

They reached the end of the tunnel soon after, and Crookshanks darted out first and immobilized the Whomping Willow, allowing the rest of the group to exit the tunnel with little difficulty.

It was completely dark outside, over an hour had passed since Black had dragged Ron into the Shrieking Shack, and the clouded sky made it more difficult to see. However, the lights coming from the castle showed them clearly where they had to go, and the group started to advance again.

Marco darted a quick look to where the other Ace and Hermione were waiting. The fact that they were still here meant something else was bound to happen. Marco kept his senses alert.

 

* * *

 

 

“Here we come!” Hermione whispered, moving to crouch more easily.

Next to her, Harry sat up and leaned forward.

“Pay attention,” he told her, “we’re going to try to catch Pettigrew.”

“What?!” Hermione gasped, barely managing to keep her voice down. “I told you we can’t interfere!”

“I know, that’s why we’re going to do it when he leaves the group.”

“But… but he’ll be a rat. In the dark!”

“That’s why I told you to pay attention.”

 

* * *

 

 

The clouds moved, and moonlight flooded the grounds. Intense moonlight that allowed them to see very well despite it being night.

The light from a full moon.

Marco froze, his eyes focusing on Lupin. Lupin, who had stopped, and whose body was shaking.

Severus, Marco remembered belatedly, had seen the Marauder’s Map because he had gone to bring Lupin his potion. A potion _he hadn’t taken_.

 

* * *

 

 

 “Oh, my—!” Hermione gasped in horrified realization. “He didn’t take his potion tonight! He’s not safe!”

“Run,” Black whispered before them, his arm up to prevent Hermione and Harry to move any closer. “Run. Now.”

But they couldn’t. Ron was shackled to Professor Lupin, and Hermione wouldn’t leave him behind. Next to her, she knew Harry shared her thoughts.

Harry lunged forward, but Marco tackled him again just as a horrible snarling sound filled the air.

Hermione watched in horrified fascination as Professor Lupin’s body began to shift, limbs lengthening and hair growing where there had been none as claws replaced his nails and his hands turned into paws.

Black transformed suddenly and launched himself at Professor Lupin who, making use of his enhanced strength, had broken free of the chain. Black managed to drag him away from the rest as they bit and clawed at each other.

Marco freed Harry, who hurried to a now fallen Ron with a picklock in hand —Hermione never thought she would be grateful about that skill— and Hermione ran to them, realizing the safest place to be right now was behind Marco.

Suddenly, someone else disappeared from sight.

Peter Pettigrew, now in rat form, sped away from them and vanished into the darkness. He had taken advantage of the distraction to transform before anyone could think of restraining him.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco turned, ready to jump at Pettigrew, but he froze, cold and dread coursing through him when he could feel, though still too far for average senses to notice them, as every single dementor on the grounds moved. In their direction. It was barely a second, but enough for Pettigrew to slip into a hole in the ground Marco couldn’t reach. He didn’t linger, either, his presence moving away as fast as a rat could move through a tunnel not made for a rat.

 

* * *

 

 

From his hiding place at the edge of the forest, Harry couldn’t even fire a spell before Pettigrew disappeared from sight. He cursed.

“Why did he freeze?” Hermione asked next to him.

“What?” Harry snapped at her, not understanding what she meant.

“Marco,” Hermione answered, and she pointed at him. Marco was suspended in mid-air, wings spread open in a way that suggested he had just turned. Harry frowned. He had been wondering why Marco hadn’t stopped Pettigrew before he reached a safe place. And then, it hit him.

“Well, damn. The dementors.” Of course, Marco had felt them. Why Harry hadn’t connected the dots was beyond him.

“Oh, Harry...” Hermione grabbed him by the arm and pulled, doing the same with Buckbeak’s rope. The only reason she managed it was that Harry had gone limp. “Run!”

Harry did, instinct kicking in at the fear in Hermione’s voice.

“Why?!” he asked as he followed her away from the group.

“The werewolf was coming our way!”

 

* * *

 

 

Ron watched, still stunned from his fall and the pain that it had caused in his broken leg, as Lupin fled, bleeding, from an equally wounded Black who was now on the ground, but clearly alive as his heavy pants indicated.

“Sirius, he’s gone, Pettigrew transformed!” Harry yelled to him.

Ron doubted Harry expected Black to find Pettigrew —Marco was there, for some reason not moving, which Ron assumed meant Pettigrew was out of reach— but Black stood and darted into the forest anyway.

And then, barely a moment after the sound of Black’s paws hitting the ground had faded, Marco was standing before them, fully human.

“The dementors are coming.”

Harry froze.

“...What?”

“They must have sensed Black. You have to get out of here.”

But Harry shook his head.

“They’re after Sirius, I’m not leaving him.”

Marco sighed.

“I know. I wasn’t telling you.” And he turned to Ron and Hermione. “Try to reach the castle. You’ll be safer the closer you get to it. Try to draw someone’s attention.”

“Where’s Sirius?” Harry demanded impatiently.

“The lake.”

Unsurprisingly, Harry took off. Marco shook his head and sighed again.

“If you encounter a dementor, think of the happiest memory you can. The spell is _Expecto Patronum_. It might work if it’s only one. Get Albus over here.”

And Marco took off, too, much faster than Harry had.

Ron looked at Hermione, then at the unconscious Snape.

“I don’t think I can even limp to the castle now,” he admitted morosely. Terrified. His friends —and Sirius Black, who was innocent and the dementors had orders to kill him on sight— were in mortal danger, and he couldn’t do anything.

“We could... wake Professor Snape?” Hermione suggested.

Ron scoffed.

“He’d sit back and watch. No, you go to the castle. I’ll wait here.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Go to Hagrid’s cabin and wait inside,” Harry told Hermione as soon as they were far enough they couldn’t hear the werewolf anymore. They had seen Hagrid head to the castle earlier, which meant his cabin was empty right now. The perfect place to hide.

“What about you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m going to the lake.”

“What?! You can’t! You can’t interfere!” she protested.

Harry frowned.

“I won’t. I just want to see what happened.” Seeing her confused face, he explained. “I don’t remember it, I think I was unconscious already, but someone cast a patronus. They saved us. And...” here he hesitated. He really didn’t want to say it out loud.

Hermione sighed.

“Be careful,” she advised, in the exasperated voice that made it clear she knew he wouldn’t listen.

With a glance backwards to make sure they did as told, Harry took off at a run towards the lake.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they reached the lake, the cold could be felt plainly in the environment. Sirius Black had reverted to his human form and he was crouched on all fours and covering his head with his hands, moaning deliriously in terror.

Ace ran to him, and attempted to pull him to his feet to no avail.

_”They’re serious?”_

Marco clenched his fists and ran forward to help him.

“Pay attention. That spell better work or we’re dead.”

Ace nodded, his wand ready, and he looked up, leaving Marco with the task of pulling Black to his feet. He did, having to support Black’s entire weight himself, and nodded to Ace to start moving.

Marco didn’t look up, aware of what he would see, and moved as fast as he could while trying to keep hold of Black’s writhing body. Next to him, Ace raised his wand.

“ _Expecto patronum_!”

A silvery, shapeless mist taking a vague resemblance to a shield came from the wand.

Black went limp in Marco’s arms, and fog was clouding the air before them.

_”They know we’ll go to war! We’ll never let them execute Ace!”_

Marco didn’t need to look up to see the dementors now, because they were approaching from the ground too. Two cloaked figures were coming straight from in front of them.

_"Marco. If things come to that, you'll have to take charge."_

They were all around them.

Ace attempted the spell again. Not even silvery mist came out this time.

Black fell from Marco’s limp hands.

_“This is my final captain’s order!”_

Turning around, Marco grabbed one of Ace’s shoulders —Ace, who still was trying to uselessly cast the spell— and embraced him, ignoring Ace’s attempts to attempt to cast the spell anymore.

It was over, they couldn’t fight this.

_”...Thatch...?”_

Marco pressed Ace’s face into his shirt as he went on his knees.

He could have held himself up a little longer, but Marco used the last of his strength to fall forward, on top of Ace, covering him.

_”Don’t interfere, Marco!”_

Ace wasn’t trying to pull away anymore, his face pressed into Marco’s chest.

A cold, clammy hand grabbed Marco’s shoulder and pulled. Marco held still, barely, his own face buried in Ace’s hair.

 _“... I’m sorry, Luffy...”_ _he barely heard that broken voice over the battle. He knew he wouldn’t hear it again._

He just needed a little longer. Until Albus came.

If he could last that long, then Ace...

A second hand joined the first one and pulled again, nearly managing to turn him over.

_”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!”_

Around him, everything went dark. What might have been a scream and a white flash were the last things he noticed.

 

* * *

 

 

The only reason Harry could cast the patronus was the knowledge that _he already had_. He had waited, barely holding back, to see whoever had rescued them, only to realize, at the last possible moment, that there had been nobody else at the lake.

His blood had boiled when he had seen the dementor touch Marco and, more than happiness, the thought that _he could save him_ was what had finally given his patronus enough power to take a shape.

The patronus charged first at the dementor bent over Marco, scattering all others in its path. It floated in a circle over the unconscious forms of Marco, Sirius and Harry’s past self. Then, when the area around them was clear of any dementors, it charged at the ones that remained, driving them all away from the lake.

Harry observed in fascination as the patronus didn’t fly, but _swam_ through the air, for the being that had burst out of Harry’s wand was none other than a tiny whale in comparison to the size of a real life one —nonetheless, larger than a human being— a whale that looked very familiar.

Harry grinned when the small representation of the Moby Dick lowered itself next to the unconscious people before vanishing. No dementors remained anywhere near the lake, the cold was gone.

Suddenly realizing that part of Snape’s tale must have been true —Snape couldn’t have handed Sirius in if he hadn’t found them here— Harry lurched out of his hiding place and ran to Marco.

He placed a hand on Marco’s back, able to feel how cold he was even through the shirt, and sighed in relief when he could hear clearly Marco’s heavy breathing.

“Marco,” he whispered hurriedly, worried that he would wake someone else if he raised his voice.

Marco didn’t react.

Nervous because Snape would show up at any moment now, Harry grabbed Marco by both shoulders and pulled.

He managed to roll him away from Harry’s past self.

 _Because it’s me_ , Harry realized. Even unconscious, Marco could tell the danger had passed, and he trusted Harry.

Pulling Marco into a sitting position, Harry passed one of his arms around Marco’s waist and lifted him with no difficulty but a good deal of awkwardness over his shoulder.

He walked past the closest line of trees and behind a thick bush before lowering Marco, carefully, on his back.

“You’re lucky I’m so strong, or I couldn’t have dragged your heavy ass here,” Harry muttered, but he smiled softly.

Marco, the idiot, had tried to protect him from the dementors. Back then Harry had been too overwhelmed by terror and his own memories to fully realize what was happening, and had tried to free himself in his attempts to cast a spell that didn’t work.

Until he had passed out.

Harry placed a hand on Marco’s sweaty forehead and caressed the skin there.

“You’re an idiot…”

Harry heard a snap and turned around in time to see Snape walk out of the shrubbery in the direction of the castle, a floating stretcher behind him. On the stretcher lay Ron, unconscious. Ron hadn’t been unconscious when Harry had left him, but Harry wouldn’t put it past Snape to have knocked Ron out if he had tried to explain the truth. Which he would have.

Snape summoned two other stretchers and moved the unconscious past Harry and Sirius on them before walking away, using some spell to have all three stretchers float behind him.

Harry waited maybe a minute after the last stretcher had disappeared from sight before turning to Marco. They had under an hour left before their time was up, and Harry couldn’t wait for Marco to wake up on his own. Not that he would wait anyway, because there was the very real possibility that Marco was dreaming, and those dreams wouldn’t be good ones after what had happened.

“Marco,” Harry called, louder now that the threat of Snape showing up had passed.

There was no response and Harry tried again, shaking Marco’s shoulder this time.

He wasn’t expecting Marco’s eyes to fly open and focus on him immediately, nor was he expecting to be pulled down into a fierce hug. That didn’t change the fact that he understood. Harry had seen horrible things because of the dementors —Sabo’s supposed death at age 10, Thatch’s death, Luffy being hurt at Marineford, _Marco_ being hurt at Marineford, his own death, his parents’ deaths…— and he didn’t want to imagine what Marco had seen.

He let Marco cling to him for a minute, but they really needed to move.

“Marco…” he started, but Marco loosened his grip without needing to hear more.

“You’re still not done, are you?” Marco asked, proving he at least suspected Harry was the one that had travelled back in time.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “We still need to save Sirius.”

With that he stood up and offered his hand to Marco. Marco accepted it, and when they were both standing Harry laced their fingers together and started to walk towards Hagrid’s cabin. Marco followed.

“What happened?” asked Marco.

“I cast a patronus,” Harry announced, grinning, but didn’t elaborate on it. He would much rather show Marco. Instead, Harry filled Marco in on the events he had missed. “Hermione arrived at the castle, but Fudge was there still and insisted on going along with Dumbledore and some professors. They found Snape, who was carrying me, Ron and Sirius unconscious to the castle. Snape fed them a story about how Sirius had used magic to confuse us and everybody but Dumbledore believed him,” Harry practically growled the last sentence. “They took Sirius to an office and the rest of us to the hospital wing. When I woke up, I tried to help Hermione convince Fudge he was making a mistake, but he refused to listen. They’re going to bring a dementor. Dumbledore came by soon after and told Hermione we needed time: three hours. So here we are now.”

Marco nodded.

“How long do we have?”

Harry didn’t have the heart to be annoyed at Marco’s calm reaction, even if it reminded him that Marco had known about the time turner and hadn’t said a word about it.

“Not sure,” Harry answered, “maybe fifty minutes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione wasn’t really surprised to see Harry come back with Marco. After Harry had left, she had realized the most likely reason Marco hadn’t been at the hospital wing was that he hadn’t known they were there. For a moment, when they had come back in time, she had feared Marco had been mistaken for Black’s accomplice or something and captured, but then she had realized someone —surely Professor Dumbledore, at the very least— would have mentioned an unidentified man with them.

She had been waiting outside for them, alongside a restless Buckbeak.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I saved our lives,” Harry said, grinning, and it took Hermione a moment to realize what he meant.

“ _You cast a patronus_?! But, Harry, that’s incredibly advanced magic!”

Harry’s grin grew, and he was so obviously proud of himself Hermione had to smile despite the fact Harry had broken the main rule of time travel. Although it turned out he had already broken it by the time they had come back, so Hermione would let it pass. This once.

“What do we do, now?”

“We should head to the castle,” Marco answered. “If they’re bringing a dementor, someone will have to come out to go fetch it. We’ll have more chances to see it if we’re closer,” he said, and gestured vaguely to where some rocks stood halfway between the castle and Hagrid’s cabin.

Hermione looked at him, and for the first time she took stock of Marco’s state. He was pale, noticeable even in the dim light provided by the full moon, and was holding Harry’s hand. Though it would be more accurate to say he was clutching Harry’s hand tightly enough that Hermione was surprised Harry hadn’t complained. It struck her suddenly that, while it had been three hours since Harry’s run in with the dementors, and he had had nearly an hour of sleep and some chocolate in-between, Marco had just encountered them.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, feeling horrible that it hadn’t been her first question.

Marco shrugged.

“I’ve been better.” It was a disturbing admission. Hermione had unconsciously formed an image of Marco as an invulnerable being in her head, and now she was faced with proof that Marco wasn’t like that. While she had seen him after the incident during the first quidditch match, it had been hard to fully assess his state in phoenix form, but now she was faced with clear proof that Marco was just as human as the rest of them, and had his own weaknesses.

They headed for the rocks, taking advantage of the cover of the night and the distance that still separated them from the castle to avoid being seen, and once there crouched to wait. Hermione had expected it would take some effort to get Buckbeak to crouch down as well —he had certainly refused to obey her past the most basic things— but Harry just needed to rest a hand on Buckbeak’s neck for him to obey.

Sure enough, soon they spotted a figure exiting the entrance doors.

“That’s Macnair,” Marco said before Hermione could even squint to try to identify them.

“He’s going to get the dementor,” she realized, somehow not surprised that Macnair was the one who had been given that task.

“Let’s go!” Harry exclaimed, standing up. “Marco—“ he started, but Marco just transformed, still crouched behind a rock. When Marco jumped into the air, Harry grabbed him. “You’re not flying after earlier.”

Marco didn’t protest, instead burrowing into Harry’s chest, and Hermione wondered just how affected he had been by the dementors. Harry arranged the rope Buckbeak had been tied with to improvise reins, and hopped onto his back. Swallowing her own apprehension, Hermione climbed behind him. She held tightly to Harry’s waist before Buckbeak took flight.

 

* * *

 

 

Finding the window Dumbledore had told them wasn’t difficult, and soon Buckbeak came to a halt before it. Harry reached out to knock on the glass, drawing Sirius’ attention. Sirius’ eyes widened when he spotted them, and he leapt from the chair where he had been sitting. He practically ran to the window and tried to open it, but it was unsurprisingly closed.

 “Stand back!” Hermione told him, and took out her wand. She aimed at the window. “Alohomora!”

The window opened.

“How-how—?” Sirius stammered, looking at them in astonishment.

“Get on! There’s not much time,” said Harry. “Macnair has gone to get a dementor.”

Sirius didn’t need any incentive. He crawled through the open window, an easy feat given how thin he was, and climbed on Buckbeak’s back, behind Hermione.

“Okay, Buckbeak, up!” Harry said, and Buckbeak ascended until they reached the tower. They landed and Hermione climbed down first, followed by Harry who was still clutching Marco to his chest.

“Sirius, you have to go,” Harry told him. “They’ll be back any moment now and see you’re gone.”

But Sirius didn’t go yet.

“What happened to the other boy? Ron?” he asked instead.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s still out of it, but Madam Pomfrey says she’ll be able to make him better. Go,” Harry answered. He was glad Sirius cared —and felt bad about his role in Ron being unconscious at the hospital wing— but now wasn’t the time for that.

Sirius still didn’t move.

 “How can I ever thank—”

“GO!” Harry and Hermione yelled at him, and Marco trilled in agreement.

Sirius finally took hold of the makeshift reins and turned Buckbeak around, to face the outer ring of the tower.

 “We’ll see each other again,” he promised. “You are truly your father’s son, Harry...”

Harry smiled. He had heard something like that before, but never from someone who had been so close to his father. It felt good to have a father of whom he was proud to be his son.

They watched as Sirius gave Buckbeak the signal to take off, and they flew away from the school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New piece of art, by TallTalesOfTheSea this time :) (http://talltalesofthesea.deviantart.com)
> 
>  


	33. The aftermath

They were practically running on their way back to the hospital wing, the three hours Harry and Hermione had gone back in time nearly up by this point. Before turning the last corner that would lead them to their destination Marco jumped from Harry’s arms to fly next to them instead. They could already hear Dumbledore’s voice.

Harry, Hermione and Marco came to a halt just when Dumbledore had closed the door to the hospital wing.

Dumbledore’s eyes slid for a moment to Marco, a slightly knowing look in them —Harry guessed Dumbledore was aware of their friendship with Marco by now, even if only in his Fawkes’ form— before looking at them all.

“Well?” Dumbledore asked quietly, smiling at them. Harry found he wasn’t angry at him anymore after tonight.

“We did it!” he said, grinning. “Sirius has left with Buckbeak.”

“Well done,” Dumbledore congratulated them, his smile bright. “I think…” he stopped to listen. “Yes, I think you’re gone now. Get inside. I’ll lock you in.”

They entered and Dumbledore closed and locked the door behind them. Ron was still asleep, as they had left him, and Harry and Hermione headed each for their bed. Marco followed Harry and landed on the mattress, burrowing into Harry’s chest as soon as he was settled.

Right afterwards, an extremely annoyed Madam Pomfrey came out of her office. Harry vaguely remembered that she had tried to kick Fudge, Snape and Dumbledore out because they were disturbing her patients’ rest.

Madam Pomfrey immediately brought out a lot of chocolate and told them to eat it. She looked disapprovingly at Harry when he started to feed part of it to Marco —Harry knew she had told Hermione phoenixes didn’t need chocolate months ago— but Harry just grinned, said Marco liked it and continued. Right now, Marco was the one who really needed the chocolate.

It wasn’t long before Snape, followed closely by Fudge and Dumbledore, burst through the door. Harry had been expecting him, because for all that Snape hated him and liked to take any occasion he could to blame Harry for anything that happened, Snape did have good instincts. He rarely accused Harry of a misdeed Harry hadn’t actually been part of, and guessed his blame in most of the ones Harry _had_ taken part in. Snape’s only problem was that he could never prove Harry’s involvement in anything. Harry knew that it frustrated Snape to no end, and he enjoyed it immensely.

Harry just sat back, not saying a single word, and let the lack of proof and the alibi Dumbledore had provided them by locking the door dismantle Snape’s correct suspicions.

Finally, when he realized he wouldn’t manage to convince anybody that he was right —Dumbledore knew but wouldn’t tell him, at least not now, and Fudge looked as if he doubted Snape’s sanity more and more every passing second— Snape whirled around and stormed out of the hospital wing.

Before that, however, Snape darted a very direct, very meaningful glare at Marco, who was still curled by Harry’s side.

Harry felt his stomach plummet.

So far, Snape hadn’t commented anything about Marco’s friendship with Harry —Harry knew Marco would have told him if he had— and, as much as Harry didn’t understand it and didn’t like Snape, Marco considered Snape a friend.

Harry didn’t want Marco to lose a friend because of him.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe I missed all that,” complained Ron for the umpteenth time the next day. It was past noon, and they had been released from the hospital wing less than an hour ago. Marco, who had spent the night with them, had left earlier that morning to check on Dumbledore, see how the fallout from Sirius’ escape evolved and if there were any news about him. Which Harry dearly hoped there weren’t.

“We know, Ron,” Hermione sighed. She had made her annoyance at the repetitive comment clear over two hours ago.

“And I can’t believe you hid the time turner from us!” Ron continued in a hurt tone that was only partly sincere by this point. That was a sentence he had repeated almost as much as the previous one in the last few hours, but fortunately he was mostly over the real annoyance now.

The last thing Harry wanted to deal with was more tension between Ron and Hermione.

The castle was mostly empty today, as most people were gone to Hogsmeade. Harry hadn’t even realized there was a visit scheduled for after the exams, and he blamed it on the fact that after the fiasco from the last escapade he hadn’t felt like returning to the village through the passage in Honeydukes.

Ron and Hermione had said that after last night’s excitement they didn’t want to go, and instead they decided to go to the mostly empty grounds to relax.

Or that had been their intention until Hagrid approached them and, once he had told them of Buckbeak’s escape —feigning surprise was complicated, but Hagrid was so happy he didn’t notice Ron’s barely contained laughter— he informed them that Lupin’s secret was no longer a secret and he was packing his things at that very moment.

Harry immediately jumped to his feet and excused himself.

He wanted to talk to Lupin before he left.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had spent a good few hours in Albus’ office that morning. He had crossed paths with Lupin when he had arrived, and Albus had informed Marco sadly that the secret was out —Severus’ doing, and Marco couldn’t say he was surprised about it— and that Lupin had just resigned. Some students, the ones that would be able to look past the fact that Remus Lupin was a werewolf, would feel sorry about it, but Marco thought Lupin had been very lucky. Given the way Voldemort’s practically confirmed curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor position had affected the previous two holders of the position, Lupin was fortunate he was only forced to resign. Better that than being burned to death or losing his memory and spending the rest of his days in one of St. Mungo’s wards. Besides, by this point Fudge believed that, prior to his transformation, Lupin had been out at the grounds to save Ace, Ron and Hermione from Black, and that it was because of that reason he had forgotten to take his potion. Technically true, even if not the exact circumstances Fudge believed, and it meant Lupin wouldn’t face any legal consequences for last night.

The dementors were gone, and Albus had managed to talk Fudge out of bringing any other creatures to the school to replace them. The risk of another incident similar to last night happening was enough to deter Fudge. His reputation wouldn’t survive, not after everything the press had been saying since Black escaped Azkaban.

Albus left shortly past noon to see Lupin out. Marco didn’t go with him, but he followed at a distance because he could sense Ace was with Lupin.

He flew out of a window some fifteen minutes later when he felt Ace walk away from Albus and entered the castle again once he had passed Lupin’s former office. Not even a minute later, Ace turned a corner into the hallway Marco had entered and, seeing him, moved to the first empty classroom he saw.

Marco followed.

“Lupin’s gone,” Ace told him, closing and warding the door.

Marco transformed.

“I know. Albus told me.”

“He brought my cloak from the Shrieking Shack,” Ace continued, then grinned, “and gave me this back,” he announced, taking the blank Marauder’s Map out of his pocket. “He said he doesn’t feel bad about me having it now that he’s not my professor anymore.”

Somehow, that revelation wasn’t unexpected, but it was welcome all the same. Marco was glad Lupin had returned the map because he knew having it could be useful later on. Probably for more than pranks and escapades, if their experiences so far were anything to go by.

“That’s good,” Marco said, pulling out a chair to sit down.

“Snape is an ass,” Ace continued, following Marco’s example.

Marco snorted.

“Sometimes,” he agreed. It had been really petty of Severus to uncover Lupin the way he had. Marco could guess Severus was in a horrible mood right now. “Speaking of him… could you not jump at his throat this week? Just until the end of term.”

“Huh? Why?” Ace asked. “It’s not the first time he’ll want to murder me in class. It’ll be fine.”

Marco shook his head.

“I know he’s not _actually_ going to kill you, nor you him, but I’d rather you didn’t piss him off even more.”

“Why not? He deserves it,” Ace countered in annoyance.

“Because he saw me last night,” Marco reminded him, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling.

“…Oh. Alright, but you owe me.”

“I’ll buy you a lot of ice cream,” Marco promised distractedly, and Ace grinned.

Then, suddenly, Ace clapped his hands together.

“I’d forgot!” he exclaimed even before Marco looked at him fully again. “After my exam, Trelawney made a prophecy. A real one.”

Marco didn’t comment, instead waiting for Ace to elaborate. Ace knew Trelawney was practically a fraud, which meant he had some proof, or at least serious hints, that this prophecy was real.

“She predicted Pettigrew’s discovery and escape last night. And also… she kind of said that he would help Voldemort return.”

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Marco groaned, heartfelt, and Ace nodded his agreement.

That guy never let them take a break.

“You should tell Albus,” Marco said, realizing it would be important that Albus and his allies started some preparations, or the wizarding world would be caught entirely off guard.

 

* * *

 

 

Today the room of requirement didn’t transform into the Moby Dick. Instead, Harry asked it to recreate the lake as it had been last night, minus people and dementors.

Grinning at Marco, he raised his wand, concentrated on the same determined relief he had felt last night and summoned his patronus.

Marco’s eyes widened in surprise. He stared, fascinated, at the small whale, so reminiscent of the Moby Dick, as it started to swim in wide circles around the clearing, slowly approaching to where they were standing.

“What do you think? A good patronus, right?” Harry asked, pleased by his accomplishment.

“It’s perfect.”

 

* * *

 

 

The remaining week of school was a calm, yet somewhat tense affair.

Independently of her result in the exam, Hermione had decided to drop Muggle Studies. She couldn’t take another year of stress due to the time turner like what she had experienced this year, and because she had already left Divination months ago, dropping Muggle Studies meant she would be able to go back to a normal schedule, even if with one more class than most of her classmates —she still _would_ take three elective classes, while most people had only chosen two. Besides, she had to admit to herself that Muggle Studies was a waste of her time. It was meant for students raised in the wizarding world: as a muggleborn, she already knew everything taught in that class.

Harry exercised a great self-control during the week. Despite the fact that Professor Snape was being positively awful to him, Harry didn’t respond to him in any way. Harry privately confided in Ron and Hermione he had promised Marco that he would behave. He didn’t even gloat —much— to Malfoy, who was fuming because of Buckbeak’s escape.

Throughout the castle, people gossiped about Black’s escape, but each new theory was more ridiculous than the previous one. Meanwhile, Percy talked about all the measures he would suggest if he managed to work for the Ministry of Magic. Even Hermione, who found magical law to be an interesting topic, grew tired of listening to him.

Aside from Black’s escape, another popular topic of conversation was Professor Lupin’s departure. The students were evenly divided between those horrified by the knowledge that there had been a werewolf in their midst for so long and those who missed him because he had been a great professor. Hermione still felt ashamed of herself for having let prejudice cloud her mind back at the Shrieking Shack.

The exam results came out the last day of school. Hermione, Harry and Ron had passed everything, and Harry joked that the only reason Trelawney had given him a passing grade in Divination was because she wanted to keep predicting his death next year. Hermione tried to convince him to switch to a more useful subject, like Arithmancy, but he refused.

Gryffindor won the house cup again.

 

* * *

 

 

At the same time the Hogwarts Express departed from the Hogsmeade station, Marco pushed open the door to Severus’ office and flew in. Severus was putting away the remaining rolls of parchment from the school year —mainly grades and exams— with that grimly satisfied air that came around him whenever a school year was over. Nobody could accuse Severus Snape of ever being happy, but he was at his least bitter when he knew he had two months away from his despised students.

Severus looked up when Marco pushed the door closed with a wing.

“Tired of hanging around Potter and his stupidity?” he asked with a glare, and Marco nearly sighed. He had hoped Severus would have calmed down a little about that —it was one of the reasons why he had waited until the students had left the castle to do this— but it seemed things would be as hard as he had feared.

Marco transformed.

“Not really.”

Severus’ jaw dropped, and so did the roll of parchment he had been holding. Marco waited while Severus put himself together and processed what he was seeing. It didn’t take more than three seconds.

Severus pulled his wand out and aimed it at Marco.

“Who are you?” he demanded, voice at its deadliest calm.

“You know me as Fawkes, though my real name is Marco.”

He wasn’t surprised when Severus fired the first curse. He was, though, when said —nonverbal— curse turned out to be a stunner. Marco’s guess would have been on _sectumsempra_.

Marco raised an eyebrow, completely unaffected —haki blocked the effects of most spells, after all, and stunners weren’t the strongest— and moved out of the way of the binding spell that followed.

“Can we skip the fight?” he asked, deliberately blocking with a hand the cutting hex that came next and letting blue fire encompass his whole hand. Severus halted, staring, and his eyes widened when the fire disappeared and Marco’s completely healed hand appeared. “You could throw the killing curse at me and it wouldn’t have any effect. Trust me, it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

After a long minute of glaring, Severus lowered his wand. He didn’t put it away, but it was an improvement.

“What do you want?”

“To talk,” Marco answered simply.

Severus nodded curtly.

“Talk, then.”

“Do you mind warding the door first? I would rather no one else hears this.”

Severus took a moment to decide, gauging him and probably the chances of Marco attacking him. Marco had already proven that he would have no need for trickery if he wanted to kill him, and Severus must have reached the same conclusion because he fired a quick barrage of warding spells at the door, finishing with a _muffliato_ that would prevent anyone from overhearing them.

“You should sit, this is going to be long.”

Severus, predictably, didn’t sit. Marco shrugged and walked to the now mostly empty desk, hopping up to sit on it.

“First of all, I would like to make something clear: Albus doesn’t know anything about me being more than an odd phoenix.”

“Why show me, then?” Severus demanded, still glaring at him.

“Because you’re my friend, and I don’t want to lose you over a stupid grudge against a dead man.”

Severus was so stumped by Marco’s declaration of friendship that he didn’t even react to the jab at his hatred of James through Ace. Marco continued before Severus could come up with anything to say.

“I’m old, Severus, older than wizardkind, and I mean that literally.” He didn’t let Severus speak, ignoring the fact that he had opened his mouth to do just that. “I even met the first wizard. The guy was much more confused about his magic than any muggleborn nowadays, and there was nobody who could explain what was going on.” Marco smiled slightly at the memory of the confusion and childish wonder he had seen on the first wizards and witches he had met. That had been before things went to hell.

“What does that have to do with me?” Severus asked in a way that made it clear he didn’t believe a word Marco was saying. Marco shrugged.

“Background information.”

Severus grunted his assent. He knew the importance of that.

“Before that, though, during what was still the time of a normal human lifespan,” even if he had already looked considerably younger than he should have, “I fell in love.” Severus scoffed. Marco ignored him. “His name was Portgas D. Ace. He was an idiot, far too stubborn for his own good, charismatic as I have rarely seen and one of the best people that I have ever met. Then he died.”

That sobered Severus up right away. If there was something he could relate to, it was losing the person one loved. Marco knew.

“Years later, when magic appeared and I was prepared to die —because I _can_ die, it just takes very special circumstances for it to happen— there was a prophecy saying that Fire Fist would be born again in dire circumstances. Fire Fist was Ace’s epithet.”

“You waited,” Severus said, and he suddenly seemed much more willing to believe Marco. Marco guessed whatever had been reflected in his voice and face had been enough to convince Severus that Marco wasn’t lying.

“I did,” Marco confirmed.

“By what you’ve said, that was thousands of years ago,” Severus pointed out, but he didn’t ask.

Marco smiled mirthlessly.

“I admit I wasn’t expecting to wait this long.” He didn’t need to explain further. If anybody could understand even a fraction of what Marco had gone through, it was Severus.

“Has he been born yet?”

“Can’t you guess?” Marco countered.

Severus grimaced.

“Exactly,” Marco confirmed. “And that’s one of the things I want to talk to you about. He is not James Potter.”

“He is _exactly_ like his good for nothing father!” Severus growled, the hand gripping his wand tightening to the point the wand shook, and the other hand fisted tightly as well. “Arrogant, disrespectful, completely disregards the rules, spoiled, always seeking attention—”

“He’s not,” Marco cut him off before Severus could go into full rant mode. “You never gave him a chance. You had decided he was a clone of James Potter even before you had set eyes on him. _Of course_ he lashes out at you if you do the same to him, he’s not going to sit there and let you attack him.” Once more preventing Severus from speaking, Marco delivered what he knew would be a very low blow. “What would Lily think? He is her son as well.”

Severus looked as if he had been struck. He hesitated, nearly taking a step back.

Marco continued in a softer voice.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He is a constant reminder of everything, and you can’t see past that. You have to understand that he is his own person, not his father or a sum of his parents.”

Severus didn’t speak for nearly a minute, and when he did it had nothing to do with Marco’s words.

“You helped Black escape,” he bit out, and suddenly the wand was aimed at Marco’s chest. Marco understood that he had hit too close to home and Severus would need time to digest his words, so he accepted the turn in the conversation.

“I did,” he confirmed.

“ _Why_?” Severus practically growled, but surprisingly no spell came from his wand. He was much more in control of himself than he had been back at the Shrieking Shack.

“Because he was innocent.”

“ _Innocent_?!”

“I saw Peter Pettigrew with my own eyes,” and sensed him, but Marco would leave explanations about haki for another time, “and he confessed. He was the one who betrayed the Potters to Voldemort.”

Severus flinched at hearing the name, but his wand didn’t waver.

“That doesn’t make Black _innocent_.”

“No, I know. But he spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit. Tell me, if Albus hadn’t covered it all up and Black, as a minor, had been tried for leading you to a werewolf, how long do you think he would have served in Azkaban?” Severus didn’t answer, so Marco did for him. “Five or six years at most, and there was the possibility that he would have been released when he turned of age. Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Severus said, but he lowered his wand. “He still thinks there was nothing wrong with his actions, and everybody still writes it off as a _prank_.”

“I know, but I also know that you won’t have any justice now. And I think you know it, too. The only option you have is to let it go.” Again, he didn’t let Severus speak. He continued, trying to drive his point home. “I am not telling you to forgive him, to forget the incident or to ‘accept’ it as a prank like Albus has been telling you. I’m telling you to really accept it happened and move past it, because as long as you don’t you’re letting Black have a hold of a part of yourself. He will never respect you, he convinced himself long ago you aren’t on the same level as other humans, it’s his way to reconcile his actions with his notion that he is a good person. Whenever you lash out it _pleases him_ , because in his eyes it confirms his perception of you. _And it affects you_. Is it really something you want, letting the Marauders have so much sway over your life?”

Marco trailed off, and silence settled in the room. Severus wasn’t quite looking at him, his gaze lost on one of the many jars at the wall behind Marco.

“…You should leave,” Severus said finally, voice soft but not angry. He sounded deflated.

Marco nodded. He climbed down from the table, took a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table.

“I won’t be around the castle much this summer. When you want to talk to me, that’s my number.”

Severus nodded. It was a testament to how much Marco had given him to think about that he didn’t comment on him apparently having a house when he spent so long in the castle. As a bird no less.

“Marco,” Severus called before he could transform. Marco hid a smile at the fact that Severus had used his name. It was a good sign. “Does Potter know about you?”

Marco nodded.

Severus removed the wards, and Marco transformed, pushed the door open and left the office.


	34. Summer activities

When Harry stepped through the barrier that separated platform 9¾ from the muggle King’s Cross there was a bounce to his steps. Ron had invited him to the quidditch World Cup that would be held in August here at Great Britain, saying his father would get tickets at work. Sirius had sent a letter, explaining that he was into hiding now, that he had been the one to send Harry his Firebolt —Hermione had been smug to learn her guess had been accurate, even if the broom had been no threat— and said the owl he had sent the letter with was a present for Ron, as an apology for his lost rat. He had also sent a slip of parchment authorizing Harry to go to Hogsmeade, which would be enough for Dumbledore to allow him to go next year.

Harry said goodbye to his friends when he spotted Uncle Vernon, who was giving him an apprehensive look that reminded Harry all over again that Marco had paid the Dursleys a visit last summer to ensure they wouldn’t give Harry trouble over the incident with Marge. Harry still wished he could have been there.

Harry grinned, and Uncle Vernon grunted something that was supposed to pass for a greeting before turning around and stalking to the exit. Harry pushed his cart to follow, very pointedly placing himself to walk next to Uncle Vernon instead of trailing behind.

Uncle Vernon eyed the letter Harry still carried in one hand.

“If that’s another form…” Uncle Vernon started in s voice that implied he wouldn’t sign it.

Harry scoffed, cutting him off before he could finish the sentence.

“Please, we both know all I’d have to do —and I _would_ after last summer— is call Marco,” Uncle Vernon flinched at the name, “and you’d sign it as soon as you were done peeing yourself.”

Uncle Vernon very visibly refrained from replying, his face an unhealthy shade of purple. An idea crossed Harry’s mind, and he smirked.

“Besides, this isn’t an authorization form. It’s a letter from my godfather.”

“You don’t have a godfather,” Uncle Vernon replied, just as Harry had known he would.

“I do. He’s a convicted mass murderer who has escaped from the wizarding prison. He wants to be more involved in my life, know how I’m doing and all that.”

Harry nearly laughed out loud at Uncle Vernon’s face right then.

 

* * *

 

 

After giving it much thought, Marco had decided against renting a different apartment for the summer. Not only had he already talked everything with the owner to rent it by the time he had learned that Black had followed Ace there, but Marco had realized that Black already knew where Ace lived, and he could learn of a new location as easily as he had the first one.

If Black decided to look further into where Ace had gone last summer after leaving the Dursleys… well, Marco would see what to do. It would depend on the circumstances.

For now, Marco was busy buying groceries to restock the kitchen, as well as miscellaneous things they would need for the summer. He had arrived to Surrey three hours ahead of the estimated time the Hogwarts Express was expected to reach King’s Cross, and he had no doubt that Ace would come to the apartment as soon as he returned to Privet Drive.

Marco scooped up five large tubes of ice cream and put them in his cart. He had promised Ace ice cream, and the muggle varieties would have to do for now. Marco would drop by Diagon Alley when he had time and buy some of the more extravagant wizarding flavours.

 

* * *

 

 

Severus woke up to the unforgiving wood of the old kitchen table, the too bright light of an annoyingly sunny morning entering freely through the window. Yesterday he hadn’t even thought of closing the window.

He rubbed his dry eyes in a vain attempt to push the throbbing headache off his head. The action was as useless as every other time he had done it in the past.

Standing up, Severus headed for his potions cabinet in search of a hangover remedy, but stopped halfway to it. Maybe he should just get drunk all over again and leave the potion for tomorrow.

Or for whenever he felt like dealing with his brain.

Shaking his head, Severus took the two steps that separated him from the cabinet, opened the door and downed the potion before he could talk himself out of it.

_That bloody bird_ , he thought, setting the flask on the countertop with more strength than necessary.

Severus wanted to dismiss it all as a cruel joke, just someone else who had used him for his own amusement. Except…

Except the first time he had tried, he had remembered James Potter’s horrified face when Fawkes — _Marco_ — had dumped a potion on him that had dyed his hair green and silver for a week.

The second time, he had remembered Marco showing up at Severus’ office when Severus had returned to the school after his trial back in 1981 and the week he had spent in Azkaban prior to it. Marco had brought with him a magical pouch with an undetectable extension charm so full of chocolate and drinks that they had toppled off Severus’ desk. Back then Severus had been too out of it to wonder how a phoenix could have managed to get all that, but now it made perfect sense.

As he drank yesterday —which had started less than an hour after the conversation— his bitter thoughts had been interspersed with not-so-bitter memories.

Shaking his head again, Severus turned around and went to the sitting room. He had come here to get drunk because Spinner’s End had a particular gloom to it that always helped to bring back unpleasant feelings, but he still wasn’t done packing his things at Hogwarts.

Maybe he could convince Albus to lend him his pensieve, if he could spin it in a way that made it sound like Severus needed it to deal with his foul mood of the past week. Albus had been trying, in his horribly annoying manner, to make him calm down.

A trip down memory lane might help with the mess that was now Severus’ brain.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had a plan for this summer. Not just occasional ideas to do one day, but something that would occupy most of his free time during the holidays. His whole life, the Dursleys hadn’t allowed Harry to watch movies, and there were many of which he knew little more than what he had heard from his cupboard. While it was true he had watched some movies the past two summers, he still had a long list left.

Marco raised an eyebrow from his position on the couch when Harry entered the apartment carrying five VHS boxes with him.

“What?” Harry asked, setting the three Star Wars movies and the first two Indiana Jones ones on the table. “They didn’t let me rent more.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ace’s movie-watching binge was a serious thing. Whenever they weren’t training —or eating, talking or out somewhere— he could usually be found on the couch surrounded by assorted snacks.

Today, however, they were at the cinema. It had taken Ace a few days to ask, Marco knew it had been mostly due to embarrassment than anything else, but here they were now. Ignoring a few strange looks they received, Marco and Ace sat down and Marco, balancing his popcorn so it wouldn’t spill, placed the bag of other food they had bought on the floor between their feet. He knew a grown man and a teenager stood out in a room full of parents and little kids, but neither of them cared about the looks and soon the room’s lights were dimmed.

A few advertisements and movie trailers later, The Lion King started.

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s the issue with Potter?” Severus, leaning against one of the kitchen’s countertops, asked as soon as Marco had transformed in the middle of the room.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Marco answered, moving to sit in the only remaining chair in the kitchen at Spinner’s End. Two other chairs had fallen victim to Severus’ rage over the years since Marco had first come here, and Marco didn’t know if there had been more than three chairs to begin with.

“I’ve been revisiting some memories, and he is… confusing,” Severus replied reluctantly.

Marco smiled softly, glad that Severus had actually taken his words to heart on this topic.

“There is no issue with Ace, he just has his own personality. What have you noticed?”

Severus grimaced.

“He doesn’t target anybody, unlike his bully of a father,” he admitted, and he seemed pained to do so.

“No, he usually doesn’t.” Unless he was up against an enemy, but Marco wouldn’t go into those details now. “When he attacks someone it’s usually because they’ve exhausted his patience or angered him too much.”

“Like Draco?” Severus asked wryly, and Marco scoffed.

“You have to admit Malfoy riles him up on purpose.”

Severus grunted. Not even he could deny that Draco Malfoy had a stupid fixation with trying to get under Ace’s skin.

“You’re calm,” Marco observed when the silence had stretched too long.

“I’ve spent the last week drunk and throwing curses in the basement whenever I wasn’t reviving a past I’d rather left forgotten,” Severus countered, and Marco could picture it easily. Severus looked exhausted, there were dark circles under his eyes and Marco was willing to bet the closest thing he had done to sleep in days was toss around in bed a couple hours before giving up, with a nightmare thrown here and there when he did manage to fall asleep.

“And what did you see in that past?”

“Why didn’t you show yourself earlier?” Severus threw back, moving away from the counter and facing Marco fully. “You claim to be my friend, yet you let me walk down the dark path without doing a single thing to stop me.”

“You wouldn’t have listened,” Marco pointed out. He had expected to have this conversation sooner rather than later, and had come with his arguments ready for it. “ _Lily_ tried to convince you, and you didn’t listen to her. If I had shown you I was human, you would have assumed I was using you to spy on the future Death Eaters on Albus’ orders or something like that. You did anyway, later.” It had been one of the most frustrating times Marco had experienced in a long while before Ace’s arrival at Hogwarts. Early in Severus’ sixth year, after Black’s attempt on Severus’ life, Albus had forbidden Severus to tell anyone what had happened at the Shrieking Shack as well as Lupin’s secret. Severus had been wary of Marco for some time before that, ever since he had discovered he was Albus Dumbledore’s phoenix a year before, but after that day Severus had refused to let Marco anywhere near him.

Severus looked away.

“It made sense at that time,” he defended himself. “I didn’t see another reason why you would keep me company.”

“Do you, now?”

“No,” Severus admitted, and by his frustrated tone Marco could guess he had spent some time trying to come up with an explanation.

Marco leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs.

“I hadn’t intended to, at first,” he started to explain. “I’ve been at Hogwarts for many decades, and as you know children can be very cruel. I don’t like bullies, so I always make a point of humbling them when I see them do something. With you… well, I usually do it without showing myself, but the first two times I did that with the Marauders they just assumed you were behind it and targeted you in retaliation, which ruined the purpose of my actions. So I started to make it clear that I was the one doing it. Then you decided to investigate me. I thought it was amusing, so I kept an eye on you when you did. And you _talked_ to me, not as a simple bird, but as if I really could understand you. It was nice, not many people do that when they only know me as Fawkes, so I stuck around.”

It had been unexpected. Severus had been bitter even as a kid, a bitter mix of anger, shame and a thirst to prove himself that only relaxed around Lily Evans, yet he had accepted Marco’s company with no complaint. Because Severus had only known him as a bird, Marco had realized even then, but at that point the only people he could really call friends had been Albus and Hagrid. Having someone else had felt good. And it had hurt to see him fall for Voldemort’s lies, to let his desperation to be _someone_ taking precedence over everything else in his life. Not that there had been much else to begin with, and Marco knew that was precisely one of the reasons things had gone down the way they had. Marco could admit now he had been willingly blind back then. He had known Severus wasn’t like the other future Death Eaters, and had thought he wouldn’t really follow them. By the time it became clear that Severus following them was actually a very real possibility, Severus was too suspicious of Marco for him to be able to intervene in any way.

“What _are_ you, anyway?” Severus asked, not acknowledging Marco’s words. He had an exasperating tendency to avoid showing emotion whenever he was in control of himself. “You implied you are human, but you are obviously not an animagus.”

“Now _that_ is a long story,” Marco said, standing up. “You have anything to drink?” he asked, going to the door that led into the rest of the house. There were an armchair and a functional couch that would work well enough.

“Do you need a straw?” Severus asked after him, and Marco flipped him off without turning around.

 

* * *

 

 

“How did the talk with Snape go?” Ace asked when Marco came in through the front door the next morning. The conversation had lasted well past midnight, and Marco had decided to crash on Severus’ couch for the remainder of the night. That thing was surprisingly comfortable for a decrepit piece of furniture that had outlived its expected time of use a few decades ago.

“It went well. Mostly.” And it had. Marco had decided to stay away from the subjects that were most touchy for Severus. He would bring them up at a later date if necessary, but he had already thrown Severus’ world off balance enough. Not that their conversation hadn’t unsettled his worldview anyway, it just had been on less personal matters.

Marco went straight for the kitchen. Severus had this horrible habit of barely keeping any food at home, so they hadn’t eaten much.

Ace paused the movie — _Beauty and the Beast_ , Marco wasn’t going to let him live that down— and followed him.

“What did you talk about?”

“The past. He’s not surprised at all you were a pirate.” What Severus _had_ been surprised, and sceptical, about had been Marco’s affirmation that Ace was doing his best to control his temper. He had been more willing to believe it once Marco told him the tale of Ace’s first few months on the Moby Dick and his countless failed assassination attempts.

Ace scoffed.

“I can imagine.”

Marco opened the fridge and bent down to look in it. At the meagre contents in it.

“What the hell happened to the eggs and bacon?”

He turned to look at Ace, who grinned sheepishly up at him.

“I was hungry.”

Marco sighed and shoved the door shut. There wasn’t much he could eat in that fridge other than a tomato and half a carton of milk.

“Let’s go eat out.”

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had a bit of a dilemma. He had just returned from Hogwarts, where he had learned a very interesting titbit about the following school year. Due to Marco’s anger with Albus and his refusal to be anywhere near him during the last few months of school, he had missed out on the fact preparations to resume the centuries-old tradition of the Triwizard Tournament —which had been cancelled for a very good reason, mind you, given the amount of dead champions— had started. Not only that, but they were almost over and everything was set for the tournament to be held next year at Hogwarts.

At first, Marco had thought that Ace would jump at the idea of a death-defying competition against dangers that he wouldn’t normally encounter in his life as a wizard, and he had started to plot how to increase Ace’s training to prepare him best for the tasks, but then Albus had mentioned the age line to ensure no one under a certain age could enter the tournament. Ace was under that age.

Now Marco was wondering if he should even tell Ace about the tournament. The matter was being handled with the utmost secrecy, and the secret was being kept for now. If things continued this way, it was likely Ace wouldn’t learn of the tournament until it was announced to the entire school if Marco didn’t tell him.

The question was: did Marco want to witness Ace’s massive temper tantrum when he discovered he was being kept from such a prime opportunity to have fun in private or did the idea of seeing said reaction in a room full of people who would be absolutely boggled by it sound better?

Finally, Marco chose to let Ace discover the news with the rest of the Hogwarts students.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s summer study was a particularly boring affair. With the knowledge that Voldemort would be back any time now —sooner rather than later, given Harry’s luck— Marco had suggested that Harry should learn nonverbal magic, because saying the spells he cast out loud would give his enemies an advantage over him. The problem was that, due to the restriction on underage magic, Harry’s learning until classes started anew was limited to theory. Again. Theory was boring, and the theory on nonverbal magic was no exception.

At least the spell books Harry was checking this summer had some promising material and provided a distraction when Harry grew too bored of the heavy book on nonverbal magic that Marco had pilfered from the library.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s birthday snuck up on him, and he was surprised when he learned that, unlike Harry, Marco hadn’t forgotten about it.

They left Surrey very early in the morning, Marco refusing to tell Harry their destination and threatening to kick Harry out of the car when he started asking if they had arrived in the most obnoxious way he could manage, copied from an American show he had caught on TV a few times.

Marco had rented a ship. Granted, it was small and a modern one, nothing like the ones from the Pirate Age that Harry remembered, but Marco knew how to pilot it himself and the experience of sailing after so long was amazing. It was the first time he did it in this life if he didn’t count Uncle Vernon’s ill-advised attempt to escape the Hogwarts letters and his short boat trip across the lake his first night at school.

Marco even started teaching him how to handle the ship’s controls himself.

They returned to Marco’s apartment late that night to a pile of presents that included cakes from Sirius, Hagrid and Ron, though Ron explained the cake was really from his mother. Hermione wrote that she would have sent sweets under different circumstances, but she was certain he had eaten far more than was healthy for him today. She was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Harry from polishing off Mrs. Weasley’s cake as a second dinner.

Harry spent the night at the apartment.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry startled awake and sat up, looking frantically around the bedroom until his brain reacted enough to process that what he had seen had just been a dream and there was no Voldemort, no giant snake and no Wormtail to worry about here.

Except that they were _somewhere_ , Harry thought bitterly as he rubbed his aching scar with his left hand. He and Marco had already figured out that the reason his scar had hurt back in his first year was the horcrux —Harry grimaced at the thought of that thing— reacting to Voldemort’s proximity. The fact that the scar hurt now could only mean what he had seen hadn’t been a normal dream, but something that had really happened.

Peter Pettigrew had already found Voldemort, who just so happened to have a plan to get to Harry.

_Wonderful_ , Harry thought bitterly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to stand up.

A look out the window proved that it hadn’t even started to dawn yet, but Harry shrugged and went to get the clean change of clothes that he had brought from Marco’s apartment yesterday. He still didn’t think it was a good idea to have nice things in this house, so he kept everything at Marco’s place and brought it here on a day to day basis.

He would take a shower —he was soaked in sweat from the dream— and get dressed. With some luck, that would buy him the time to leave the house when there was at least some light outside.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bertha Jorkins?” Marco asked, interrupting Ace’s tale.

Ace shrugged and nodded. He had rushed into the apartment just past dawn, rudely awakening Marco, talking about visions and Voldemort.

“Yeah, that’s the name they said. You know her?”

“No,” Marco replied, shaking his head. “I just think I’ve read that name somewhere. A Ministry worker, probably,” he said with a shrug. Given the size of the British wizarding community, even the least important of the employees at the Ministry of Magic were mentioned at the press at one point or another. It had the inconvenience that this way most names sounded familiar at least, and it was impossible to remember why most of the time.

Ace’s eyes slid to the shelf where Marco kept the summer’s newspapers piled up. It was for unexpected events like this that Marco kept copies of the newspaper around.

“Have fun reading,” Ace told him, and Marco glared half-heartedly.

“What else did they say?” He didn’t bother mentioning that if this Bertha Jorkins had indeed run into Voldemort Marco wouldn’t have to look much. Either her death or her disappearance would eventually be reported in the _Prophet_.

“Voldemort mentioned something about a faithful follower at Hogwarts. Do you think it could be the new Defence Professor?”

Marco scoffed in amusement.

“No. That guy’s as likely to be a Death Eater as Albus.”

“You know him?” Ace asked, leaning forward on the couch in curiosity.

“Not personally,” Marco replied, shaking his head. “I didn’t take an active role in the war against Voldemort past keeping an eye on the students.” Something he regretted now, but Marco had stayed out of most conflicts for millennia, and he had seen no reason to being involved in this one at the time. “But Alastor Moody was an auror, the person Death Eaters were most afraid of after Albus himself, and he was part of the Order of the Phoenix. In fact, that is why Albus convinced him to come teach Defence Against the Dark Arts this year.”

“Why?” Ace asked, and Marco sighed. He had thought the tournament couldn’t give them any trouble, because Ace couldn’t participate in it, but _of course_ Voldemort had found a way to use it to his advantage nonetheless.

And now he didn’t even get to witness Ace’s public temper tantrum.

“Have you heard of something called the Triwizard Tournament?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, The Lion King was released on June 15th. And yes, I actually went and checked that. You can imagine these two getting incredibly invested in the plot, and then satisfied that Scar died but angry that his death wasn't really at Simba's hands.
> 
> And we have new art :D Drawn by FoxMii, we get to see the Moby!Patronus :D  
> 


	35. The invitation

“Okay,” Harry muttered once Marco’s explanation of the Triwizard Tournament was over. Harry _had_ cursed quite creatively when he had been informed that he wasn’t old enough to participate, and while Marco had smirked at him, Harry suspected he would be laughing his ass off under different circumstances. “Who’s going to be there and who’s a potential Death Eater?”

Marco shrugged and leaned back on his seat.

“The Ministry representatives for the tournament are Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman. Crouch was the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement during the war against Voldemort, and he was firmly against anything related to the Dark Arts. Amongst other things, he authorized the aurors to use Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters and when his son was discovered to be a Death Eater, he sent him to Azkaban.”

Harry grimaced. That was _harsh_. Even if his son was a criminal, Harry had trouble imagining someone would abandon their own child like that. Even Roger, for all his sins and faults, had tried to ensure Ace’s survival in his own way.

“You think he could be coerced into helping?” he asked, though he could guess the answer.

Marco shook his head.

“He’d off himself before helping Voldemort.”

“What about the other guy? Bagman?”

“Now, he’s… a possibility,” Marco said, tilting his head to the side in a pensive gesture. “While I don’t think he was a Death Eater, he _was_ tried for having dealings with them. He claimed ignorance and swore he didn’t know they were Death Eaters, of course.”

“And he works for the ministry?” Harry asked, sceptical. There was one more proof of the wizarding world’s political corruption.

Marco grinned wryly.

“Not just that, he’s the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Bagman was a quidditch star, and that has always gained him special treatment. And he’s a self-serving coward, from what I’ve gathered on him, but a competent wizard. Not the smartest guy around, but skilled enough in practical magic. He would be a good candidate to threaten into helping Voldemort, given his position. He’d need to be walked through every step of the plan, though.”

Harry hummed, silently agreeing to keep an eye on Bagman whenever he was at Hogwarts.

“Anyone else?”

“Igor Karkaroff, Headmaster of Durmstrang. He was a Death Eater who sold other Death Eaters and information to buy his freedom.”

“And he’s _teaching_?” Harry practically growled, eyes bulging.

Marco shrugged.

“Laws work like that. Don’t forget Severus was a Death Eater, too. Karkaroff was acquitted, and so he can work like any other person.”

Harry growled his understanding.

“Wouldn’t Voldemort want him dead?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes, but he doesn’t have that many options, so he can’t be picky. I suspect that’s why Pettigrew is still alive, too.”

Harry sighed and leaned back on the couch.

“Could it be a student?” Because there were many Death Eaters’ children and supporters in the school, the incident with the Chamber of Secrets had proven as much.

“Maybe,” Marco replied, pensive. “I guess that depends on what, exactly, Voldemort has planned. And most people can be coached to learn magic that’s supposedly out of their league.”

Harry thought of his Moby Dick patronus, a spell that wasn’t taught in school at all.

“So, basically, it could be anyone.”

Marco hummed in agreement.

There was a tap on the window. Harry looked up to see Ron’s new owl waiting there. He looked at Marco. Marco raised his eyebrows at him, shook his head and went to open the window. The owl, Pig, hurried in and crashed into the coffee table. Over the summer, Harry had noticed Pig was far too energetic.

_Harry,_

_DAD GOT THE TICKETS! Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum’s writing to the muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don’t know how fast muggle post is. Thought I’d send this with Pig anyway._

_We’re coming for you whether the muggles like it or not, you can’t miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it’s better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we’ll come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we’ll come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday anyway. Hermione’s arriving this afternoon. Percy’s started work: the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Don’t mention anything about abroad while you’re here unless you want the pants bored off you._

_See you son,_

_Ron_

_PS: Have you convinced Marco to come?_

There was a short moment of silence before they both spoke in unison.

“I should go check—“

“I’d better go with—“

Harry and Marco looked at each other and started to laugh.

“I’m not missing this,” Marco stated finally. “And the Dursleys might forget to be polite.”

“Yeah, I don’t think Mrs. Weasley knows how to work muggle post,” Harry agreed. “Are you sure you don’t want to go? There won’t be any tickets left by now, but you don’t need one if you transform.”

“Nah,” Marco said, shaking his head. “You know quidditch is not my thing. If you’re not up on a broom risking something to come get you, I’d rather avoid it.”

Harry would be indignant about the comment, except that given his track record so far Marco had a point.

“What will you do, then?”

“Go bug Severus, probably.”

“Okay, let me write back to Ron —the Dursleys can’t say no, and I’m not leaving Pig in here to destroy the apartment while we’re gone— and we can head out to Privet Drive.”

_You really think they’ll dare say no? I’m at Marco’s, so I’m gonna go see if the letter has arrived. He’s coming there with me, but he still says no to the World Cup._

_See you tomorrow._

He tied the letter to the excitable Pig’s leg and sent her off, went to the kitchen to find something for them both to eat —they hadn’t eaten breakfast with the distraction of the dream— and they headed out. They didn’t bother to separate to go to Privet Drive; when Harry had suggested it, Marco had shrugged and said it was just a matter of time, probably not much if Voldemort was already on the move, before he would have to step forward into the world as a human. There was no point in hiding anything: they wouldn’t volunteer any information about Marco, but they both knew that if they wanted to deal with the horcruxes they would have to work with Dumbledore eventually. There was no point in keeping things as secret as before they discovered their existence.

An advantage of going with Marco was that they took the car instead of Harry’s usual bus route. It was a nice change, certainly much more comfortable than standing in the swaying and generally too crowded bus, and it wasn’t long before they were parking before number four, Privet Drive.

They stepped out of the car and walked to the door. Harry opened it with his copy of the key —Uncle Vernon had thrown it at him after the first meeting with Marco, claiming that he refused to have his family wait for whenever he decided to show up— and he hadn’t even closed it again when he heard Uncle Vernon’s heavy steps stomping towards the entrance.

“You little—!” Uncle Vernon started to yell, but froze mid-step when he spotted them. Harry wanted to know what, exactly, had transpired last summer between Marco and the Dursleys, because the shade of green Uncle Vernon had turned was most interesting.

“I’m assuming the letter’s arrived,” he said instead, cheerfully. “Can we see?”

Uncle Vernon grimaced, very clearly wanting to refuse Harry anything he asked, but he simply took a step back and threw the letter at them. Marco caught it.

Both Marco and Harry burst out laughing when they saw the entire envelope, sans a tiny space where the address had been written in crammed handwriting, was covered in stamps. Sometime while they laughed Aunt Petunia and Dudley had stepped out of the kitchen, because they were standing behind Uncle Vernon when Harry next looked in that direction.

“You have a day to pack,” Marco reminded him as he read over the contents of the letter. “I guess we’ll have to bring your clothes over here.”

Uncle Vernon didn’t dispute the fact that Harry was going, which served to show just how scared he was of Marco.

Marco wandered over to the cupboard under the stairs where Harry’s school supplies were imprisoned. He didn’t bother asking for the keys, simply taking hold of one of the deadbolts and using it as leverage to pull the door off its hinges. By the way the Dursleys paled, any sense of safety they had felt knowing Harry’s belongings were in that cupboard was gone.

“Do you have your school supplies list?” Marco asked, picking Harry’s trunk up.

“Yeah, it’s upstairs. Why?”

“I was thinking,” Marco started, casual, “that quidditch matches can last for days. While the Weasleys probably have something thought out to buy everything,” he continued, and while he didn’t hesitate, Harry knew him well enough to know that Marco only beat around the subject when he was nervous or unsure about something, “we could go buy them today. We don’t have anything better to do anyway.”

Harry grinned, and the only reason he didn’t make a comment about a date was because he didn’t want the Dursleys —still looking at Marco as if he was going to turn on them any given moment— to know about their not quite relationship.

“You’re buying me a ton of ice cream.”

Marco mock-saluted him —the marine salute, which looked kind of hilarious on him— and Harry dashed upstairs to grab the list and the clothes from yesterday that he had forgotten in the morning.

As they left, Harry waved cheerfully at the Dursleys and promised he would be here by tomorrow at four to wait for the Weasleys. If they weren’t hiding Marco’s existence anymore he fully intended to spend his last night in Surrey at the apartment.

“You have some other intention aside from buying my things, don’t you?” Harry asked once they were in the car, because that alone wasn’t enough to explain Marco’s hesitance when he had asked.

Marco nodded, not looking away from the road. As if Harry wasn’t sure that his reflexes and haki were good enough that he could probably drive with his eyes closed.

“I’ve thought, if I am to appear at some point, that the wizarding world might panic about an unknown man suddenly in the life of their golden child.” Harry scoffed, but he knew that was how many people saw him. “So far I have only dropped by Knockturn Alley a handful of times, and it has been a few years since I visited a shop that could be called respectable. If we were to be seen together a few times, then I wouldn’t come so out of nowhere in whatever big fashion would happen if we wait until the war has started.”

Harry nodded, and they didn’t speak again until they were climbing up the stairs.

“You know,” he said once inside, “you’ve always been insightful, but when you say stuff like that you sound like a politician. That’s kinda scary.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in a political career,” Marco told him flippantly. He put the trunk down, opened it and threw Harry his school robes. “Try those on, but I suspect you’ll need new ones.”

He was right, of course, because the robes had already been a little too short on Harry by the end of the school year.

Marco had disappeared into his room, and returned with a dark blue robe thrown over his clothes.

“Isn’t it a little too hot for robes?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. They looked good on Marco, of course —great, in fact, blue always looked great on Marco— but Harry didn’t want to be anywhere near robes when they were having one of the mostly stable hot days of summer.

“They’re charmed to keep the wearer cool. And people don’t look at me twice if I’m wearing robes,” Marco pointed out.

Harry rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother arguing anymore. Wizards were idiots. They trusted appearances far too much. And speaking of appearances...

“What happens if someone who’s seen you at Knockturn Alley lately recognizes you?” Harry asked, heading back to the door.

“Not much. While it has a dubious reputation, if everything that’s done in Knockturn Alley was illegal, they would have closed the place up.” Marco waited until they were inside the car again to continue. “The only one who knows for sure that I was doing something illegal is Borgin, and he would get in more trouble for admitting he sold me those books than I would for buying them.”

Harry had a sudden mental image of a group of aurors attempting to arrest Marco, and he snickered.

“I’d love to see them try to get you in trouble.”

“Believe it or not, it’s happened before.”

“Really? When?”

Marco hummed, pensive.

“A little under two centuries ago. I killed a group of scumbags, the aurors showed up, I knocked them out and decided to spend the following years travelling other European countries in search of clues. International cooperation back then was even worse than it is now.”

 

* * *

 

 

The few times Marco had entered Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron, he had fooled the brick wall entrance with haki, because the spell keeping it closed identified it as a variation of magic or something and reacted to a haki-imbued finger the same way it did to the tip of a wand. This time he let Ace tap the right combination of bricks on the wall, something Ace took great joy in because it was the first time he did it.

They started their trip with a visit to Gringotts, because Marco didn’t have much money left and Ace didn’t have any at all. He, unsurprisingly, refused to let Marco pay for everything, mostly out of pride than anything else. Also unsurprisingly, Ace laughed all the way down the first cart ride and announced he loved those carts, earning a sideways dubious glance from the goblin accompanying them. One of the goblins in a higher position, of course, because goblins made a point of treating Marco well. By well, Marco meant they weren’t as gruff or rude to him as they were to the average wizard.

Ace’s vault had a considerable amount of money in it. Nowhere near as much as many people would expect from the Potter line, but one thing that never changed about humans was how they equated a notorious name with money. As the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, Marco could assert that a notorious name didn’t always mean riches. The Whitebeard Pirates had been the sort who spent any money they got their hands on quickly, and it had fallen to Marco more often than not to ensure they had enough left to feed the crew.

Marco’s vault was much deeper than Ace’s, a trip Ace enjoyed as much as the first one, and the goblin opened the door, stepped to one side, and they walked in.

Ace whistled, looking around at the stacked piles of coins and the shelves filled with books and artefacts.

“You haven’t wasted time, have you?” Ace observed, walking over to study a collection of four centuries old jewellery.

Marco shrugged and started to scoop coins into the pouch he used for the wizarding currency.

“I never saw the point in stopping collecting things once I started. You don’t know when you might need the money to buy an entire island or something.”

Ace scoffed, giving him a look that probably was meant to be unamused but fell short.

“Where are they, anyway?” Ace asked, looking around meaningfully.

He didn’t need to elaborate. Marco pointed to the fourth chest starting from the left in a line of twelve, all piled unobtrusively against a wall, and all of them magically enlarged on the inside to hold much more than they appeared to. None of them, except for the fourth one, contained anything of particular value. It meant that in the very unlikely case someone managed to break into Gringotts and this vault in particular, if the chests caught their eye amongst all the other on first sight much more valuable items, the devil fruits would be discarded as useless junk and overlooked in favour of gold and antique artefacts.

Ace just nodded, probably seeing this reasoning. As pirates, they knew well how treasures attracted people’s attention.

 

* * *

 

 

“Clothes first,” Marco announced once they were outside the bank, and he smirked at Ace’s glare. Then it was Ace who smirked.

“You said it’s been a few years since you’ve been around here, right?” he gestured with his arms in an attempt to encompass Diagon Alley. Not Knockturn Alley, Marco knew.

“Yes,” Marco replied. He dodged two running children without removing his eyes from Ace.

“Then all your robes must be a little old fashioned. If you’re gonna start showing up regularly, the least you can do is have an updated wardrobe.”

Marco raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. He knew exactly what Ace was doing, but there was a flaw to his plan.

“You know I don’t mind shopping for clothes, don’t you? I’ve done far worse.”

But Marco conceded Ace’s point, and they spent over an hour at Madam Malkin’s, first getting Ace’s school robes sorted out and then looking through the shop for everything else. Aside from Marco’s clothes, Ace needed dress robes for the Christmas ball that was part of the tournament (Ace’s pained grimace at these news had Marco snickering in response) and finding suitable ones proved to be more difficult than either of them had expected.

Marco vetoed Ace’s first choice on the basis that orange, while a nice enough colour, looked hideous for dress robes; Ace refused green ones saying that he didn’t want to have to deal with any nonsense about then enhancing his eyes, the exact reasoning Madam Malkin had used when she suggested them to him. Finally, Ace settled on black robes, and asked Madam Malkin to add some dark purple and white accents to them. Madam Malkin tutted in disapproval when Ace sketched the Whitebeard Pirates’ flag on a piece of parchment and requested that the robes’ brass buttons had the flag engraved on them, but she agreed when Ace stubbornly refused to be swayed.

“Maybe you should get dress robes, too,” Ace muttered while they browsed through the men’s section. He pulled out a hideous set of canary yellow robes and showed them to Marco.

“I don’t need them, it’s not like I’ll attend. And if you even _think_ of suggesting I try that on, you can forget turning sixteen will change anything,” Marco hissed at him, and smirked at how quickly Ace shoved the robes back into the rack. His feigned expression of innocence was better, but Marco knew him too well to be fooled.

Finally, armed with a handful of possible robes, Marco called Madam Malkin to make the necessary adjustments. Ace sat on a chair, ostensibly to comment on how the choices fit and make the occasional jibe, but Madam Malkin was the only one who believed that was the reason Ace was watching.

As soon as they were out of the shop with the promise that their clothes would arrive at Marco’s address by owl the following morning, Ace dragged Marco to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. Ace knew Fortescue from spending the majority of August last summer at the store, and was greeted warmly. They settled on a corner table outside of the shop itself and ordered.

Ace grinned widely, pointed at Marco and said:

“He’s paying, so I want the largest sundae you can make. Any combination of flavours is okay.”

Marco sighed, glanced at Ace in amusement, and asked the now disconcerted Fortescue for an average-sized sundae for human beings who had a normal stomach. Any flavour was fine for him, too. Ace kicked him, hard, under the table.

Fortescue looked distinctly amused when he left to prepare their orders.

“Don’t you think I’m done with this,” Ace said, mock-threatening.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ace was a little shit. He might still be growing up, stuck in that stage where a good part of his more childish features had disappeared but he was still on the lanky —if far more muscular than average— side of things and needed to grow up at least a few more inches and fill out in various places.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t attractive, of course.

Marco knew Ace’s hormones had been acting up for a while now, Ace wasn’t subtle at all about filling him in on certain memories he dreamt about instead of the average teenage wet dreams, and Marco always made a point to tell him to take a cold shower or use his hand.

Now Ace was enacting his revenge.

“Ace,” Marco said with a weary sigh, focusing on his own ice cream, “I know that ice cream is good, but you don’t _have_ to give the spoon a blowjob. It’s not like it’ll make a difference.”

Ace released the spoon from his mouth with a damn wet sound. Most people, even horny teenagers, wouldn’t have dared to do something like that while facing the street, but Ace had never given much thought to what others thought about him. And maybe the gestures themselves weren’t _that_ obscene, Ace wasn’t making exaggerated moaning noises or anything, but this was _Ace_ , with a relatively long object, ice cream smearing his lips and far more tongue activity than strictly necessary.

“Oh, it does,” Ace assured him in a passable attempt at a sultry voice. The voice alone wouldn’t have worked, but there was the spoon. _Damn lucky spoon_. “How much can those robes cover?” Ace continued with a self-satisfied smirk, and Marco glared at him.

“Enough,” Marco said in his most cutting voice. The one Ace had always been immune to. Ace just grinned. “What about your jeans?”

“Huh?”

Marco’s back _was_ to the street, and he was conveniently facing the wall behind Ace.

“How much do they cover?” And, without waiting for a reply, Marco put his spoon down and very deliberately scooped some ice cream up with his index finger.

He had no intention of doing anything with Ace yet, but if Ace insisted on being a little shit, two could play this game.

They spent a very long time in the store, enough to eat another ice cream each, before Ace had calmed enough for them to continue.

While being a teenager was said to have many advantages, there were some very bothersome disadvantages as well.


	36. The world cup

Harry walked into number four, Privet Drive just past four o’clock on Sunday, carrying his truck in one hand and waving over his shoulder at Marco with the other before closing the door. He had sent Stefan last night (instructing her to return to the Burrow) with a letter to Sirius, gushing about going to the World Cup and telling him he would spend the rest of the summer with the Weasleys. He had also added some complaints about not being able to participate in the Triwizard Tournament because he couldn’t help himself and Marco would have far too much fun with it were Harry to complain to him.

Harry’s relationship with Sirius was going well. He didn’t know what Marco’s issue with him was (Harry hadn’t gotten around to asking him, and Marco had volunteered no information), but he knew if Sirius posed a danger to Harry, Marco would either have stated it outright or just killed Sirius. Whatever the issue was, Harry suspected it had to do with Snape and his obvious animosity with Sirius. He had meant to ask, but whenever he thought about it, something distracted him before he had a chance to do it. But he liked Sirius, he really did. Sirius didn’t treat him like a kid in his letters, and he had lots of stories to share; Harry had learned more about his parents, especially his father who had been Sirius’ best friend (it turns out they hadn’t been too close to his mother until their seventh year), than he had in all his life. He didn’t know where Sirius was right now, because that information was too risky to share in a letter, but Sirius had made a couple appearances up north of Europe that had drawn the Ministry’s focus away from Hogwarts. There had been some relatively harsh criticisms written in the _Prophet_ towards the Ministry for letting Sirius escape the country.

Harry nearly laughed when he stepped into the living room. The Dursleys had put on their best clothes in what was no doubt an attempt to not impress, but show off to the Weasleys. Harry was hard-pressed to think of a family who would care less about appearances than the Weasleys did. Ignoring them and their mutterings, Harry left his trunk by the main door and went upstairs to collect Stefan’s cage, the only thing he hadn’t taken to the apartment yesterday. There was no use for a cage there, Stefan had a nice perch in what was supposed to be a guest room but they used for training.

He returned downstairs, placed the cage on top of the trunk and moved to settle on the couch. Uncle Vernon glared at him, of course, but after an encounter with Marco only yesterday he didn’t even attempt to reprimand him for it. Instead, he started to go on about how the Weasleys better be dressed decently, complaining that he had seen how ‘their lot’ dressed. He also looked out the window constantly along with Aunt Petunia, waiting to spot their car. Uncle Vernon considered one’s car as a good measure of the type of person they were.

Harry didn’t bother to mention that the Weasleys’ car was happily running through the Forbidden Forest, but the reminder begged the question on how, exactly, they intended to come all the way out here.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was the last one to step into the fireplace, and he could barely breathe by the time it deposited him at the fireplace in the Burrow, too busy attempting not to choke on his own laughter. Mr. Weasley would probably take a while, busy as he was trying to convince the Dursleys to just let him fix Dudley’s magically enlarged —and still growing— tongue.

Fred helped him to right himself, immediately asking if Dudley had eaten the sweet that had started it all, and Harry confirmed it, barely getting out the question of what, exactly, that thing was. It turned out Fred and George had invented it, which was impressive.

By the time he had been informed of this, Harry had stopped laughing and looked around. George and Ron were in the room as well, of course --they had come to collect him after all-- alongside two redheads he didn’t recognize but could guess their identity. It was confirmed when they introduced themselves as Charlie and Bill Weasley, the oldest brothers. He decided immediately that he liked them.

It was then that Mr. Weasley apparated in the kitchen, and he looked _pissed_. Harry had never seen Mr. Weasley look pissed, the closest thing he had seen was him attempting to appear angry to support Mrs. Weasley on a handful of occasions. This time he didn’t need any help to tear into Fred for dropping the sweet absolutely not by accident.

And it was while Mr. Weasley was yelling at Fred and George that Mrs. Weasley, followed by Hermione and Ginny, showed up. Harry was a crazy suicidal idiot sometimes, but he had his limits, and he could have hugged Hermione when she provided them with an excuse to get out of the room just as Mrs. Weasley started in on Fred and George.

“What the hell was that about?” Harry hissed as they hurried up the stairs.

And that was how he learned about the brilliantly wonderful idea that was Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes.

He had to tell Marco about this.

 

* * *

 

 

Severus hated to go grocery shopping.

His muggle clothes were all old and not in the best of conditions, but he could never be arsed to buy new ones for the two months of summer holidays he needed them every year, not when he wore robes at home anyway. This meant that whenever he was forced to go outside, he was subjected to mistrustful or derisive glances from his neighbours, because his appearance was too shabby even for such a depressed area as this one was.

He stopped at the entrance of the living room, bags still in his hands, and his eyebrows went up on his forehead on their own accord.

“What are you doing on my couch?”

Marco raised his head from where he had been reading one of the most recent potions journals (and why Marco was reading about potions was an oddity in itself, but Severus guessed so many years made a person dabble a bit in everything to pass the time) and nodded at him.

“I’ll be staying here the rest of the summer,” Marco said simply.

Severus’ eyebrows remained up.

“Don’t I have a say in the matter? This is _my_ house,” he pointed out scathingly, but moved to the kitchen to put the groceries away.

“Really?” Marco asked from the living room, and Severus heard him move. His voice grew closer. “Given the state of general neglect in most rooms, one could argue this house is abandoned.”

“Are you offering to clean?”

“Like hell I am. You’re the wizard, just use some magic.” Marco stopped at the doorway and leaned against the doorframe.

“I haven’t done it in nearly two decades; what makes you think I’ll do it now?”

“Improving your quality of life?” Marco suggested, flippantly enough that it might be taken as a joke. Even if most of the time it had been as a bird, Severus knew him well enough to realize Marco wasn’t joking. “Seriously, Severus, you only bother to occasionally clean the rooms you use, and even there the furniture is barely holding together. Haven’t you heard living in unfavourable conditions contributes to worsen depression?”

“I’m not depressed,” Severus growled, and aggressively stuffed the milk bottles into the fridge. Aggressively doing day to day activities was a talent of his.

“You’ve never seen a specialist. I’m certain they’d be happy to diagnose you.”

Severus glared at Marco over his shoulder, reminded himself that for some reason Marco considered him a friend despite knowing virtually every horrible thing Severus had ever done, and changed the subject.

“Why are you here, Marco? Aren’t you supposed to babysit Potter over the holidays?” While Marco had visited a handful of occasions, he hadn’t stayed overnight after the first day.

“Ace is attending the quidditch World Cup with his friends,” Marco replied, walking into the kitchen and settling on the only chair.

“And you’re not going?”

“I’m not a fan of quidditch. If Ace isn’t liable to kill himself on a broom, I’d rather avoid the sport.”

“I believe,” Severus said, returning to his task of unpacking the groceries, “that you are underestimating Potter’s ability to find himself in trouble.”

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow, things never could go as planned.

Hermione and Ginny had been woken up by Mr. Weasley, who urged them to grab their coats and come out of the tent they shared. The noise outside in the camp had change, from the celebrating party the Irish fans had been engaged in to something louder and far less cheerful, including screams, many running feet, and jeering laughter.

A very familiar voice was yelling, too, and as soon as she stepped out of the tent Hermione saw Fred and George holding an enraged Harry by the arms while Ron —his hands on Harry’s shoulders— unsuccessfully tried to reason with him.

“Harry, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, hurrying over to him, “you go with the others to the forest, we’ll take care of it,” he tried to reassure, which Hermione knew wouldn’t work on Harry.

“Like hell I’m going! I’m gonna beat those bastards up!”

It was then that Hermione glanced past her own group and saw the source of most of the noise. A crowd of masked people were advancing through the camp, a trail of destroyed tents left behind them. Around them, a large group of unmasked people had gathered. Above the mass of people hung four figures; the smallest one —a _child_ — was spinning madly in the air, while a woman hung upside down and attempted to cover herself in vain, her nightgown fallen with that position.

“C’mon Harry, you don’t even have your wand!” Ron yelled at Harry.

“What?!” Hermione exclaimed, turning to them again. Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, and Percy had left while she looked at the crowd.

“He tried to draw it,” Fred explained with a grimace, attempting to keep hold of Harry’s arm. Hermione suspected the only reason he was managing it was that Harry didn’t want to hurt him.

“But it’s gone,” George continued.

That wasn’t good. Harry _with_ a wand could do some damage against that crowd, but without his wand he was limited to physical attacks, and while those were great on an one to one fight...

“Harry,” Hermione said, approaching him, “you can’t go up against so many people without your wand. You don’t even have haki to protect you.” It was a good thing that everyone present already knew about haki, otherwise Hermione wouldn’t have been able to use it as an argument, and she doubted any other reasoning would have worked.

Fred and George heaved simultaneous sighs of relief when Harry relaxed and they could let go of him. Fred rubbed his left shoulder with a grimace.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Harry growled. “Stay with me.”

Hermione pulled her wand out as soon as they reached the trees and cast a _lumos_. There had been a path of floating lamps connecting the camp and the quidditch stadium when they had gone to watch the match, but they were gone and the forest was dark and crowded. For some reason, no one had thought of using a _lumos_ charm, maybe out of fear: as if the people at the camp hadn’t seen them all come in here.

It was hard, but they managed to avoid being pushed apart. Hermione privately thought it was because the light from her wand made Harry’s glower even scarier than it would have been in daylight.

“Those masks,” Harry said darkly once they had crossed the first line of trees, “from the guys who started it, I think they were Death Eaters’ masks.”

“Really? Never seen one,” Fred commented. He was holding Ginny’s hand, keeping her close as they walked.

As if following a silent agreement, they walked deeper into the forest, away from the large amount of people that had stopped right inside the line of trees in an attempt to see what was happening.

 

* * *

 

 

They crossed paths with Winky the house-elf, who had been up at the quidditch stands with them (and apparently was terrified of heights) and afterwards they had to stop when Hermione started on a tirade about the house-elves’ situation being slavery —she was right— and Ron argued that they liked it, which resulted in one of their many arguments.

Harry looked around at the empty area of the forest they had wandered into. It was a calm enough place to wait, he guessed, and they would hear people fleeing again if the possibly-Death Eaters approached.

Harry clenched his fists.

He wanted to be out there beating those guys up and knocking their stupid masks off their faces so they would be discovered, but Hermione had been right: without his wand (which he _really_ hoped had simply fallen on his bed and he hadn’t noticed in the hurry to leave the tent) and not being a haki user he was limited to physical attacks, and while he was convinced he could take on practically any wizard individually that way, an entire crowd was a different story.

He really missed the Mera Mera no Mi in situations like this one.

He wandered off to a nearby rock and sat down to wait for Ron and Hermione to be done. Fred, George, and Ginny joined him. Ginny, Harry noticed for the first time, looked pale.

“It’ll be fine, you know?” he told her, and he was mostly certain of it. “If those guys _are_ Death Eaters, it means they’re the ones who got away. They won’t want to be caught now and be sent to Azkaban.”

“Not very reassuring, Harry,” George told him. He then wrapped an arm around Ginny’s shoulders, “what this brute is trying to tell you is that those people will disapparate as soon as the first auror pops in; Dad and the others will be fine.”

“Yeah, if you want to worry about something, worry about me,” Harry said with a grimace. When the three looked at him askance, he explained. “When Marco hears I lost my wand, I bet he’ll start insisting I learn wandless magic. He’s got me reading about nonverbal magic all summer already, you know?”

“Really?” Fred asked, surprised. “But _we’re_ just starting that this year! It’s N.E.W.T. level!”

“Tell that to Marco,” Harry said with another grimace. “He’s always been a slave driver.”

Fred patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.

Green light erupted from behind them, cutting straight through Ron and Hermione’s argument as they all turned to look in that direction. The light appeared from somewhere deeper into the forest and rose straight to the sky, where it formed into the giant shape of an ugly skull with a snake coming out its mouth.

_Skull and snake..._

“That’s the Dark Mark!” Harry exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

He ignored Fred’s attempt to stop him and took off at a run in the direction where the light had come from and the mark now hovered eerily in the sky. He heard running feet behind him, proving that at least some of the others were following him.

He could hear screams coming from the woods all around them as well.

Harry barrelled through a few bushes and came to a halt in an empty clearing right below the mark. There was no one on sight.

“Do you see anyone?” he asked, looking frantically around at the no longer pitch-black forest.

“No,” replied Fred, who had stopped next to him.

“Harry, we shouldn’t be here,” Hermione hissed, and she grabbed him by the left shoulder in an attempt to drag him away. He didn’t move.

Before Harry could reply —which may have been a good thing, because he wasn’t in the best of moods— a series of popping sounds preceded around twenty wizards apparating all around the clearing, and Harry didn’t stop to think before yelling for everybody to duck. It was just in time, too, because the wizards had immediately aimed their wands at them and fired a barrage of stunners that flew over their heads.

The red jets of light bounced off trees and disappeared into the darkness without hitting any of them.

“Stop!” yelled a voice Harry recognized as Mr. Weasley’s. “STOP! Those are my children!”

The spells stopped immediately, and Harry climbed to his feet, glaring around at the assembled wizards in annoyance. Fred, George, Ron, and Hermione were moving to stand up, too, but Ginny had paled even further and was hunched over herself on the ground. Mr. Weasley, who looked as pale as Ginny, hurried over to them and knelt next to her.

“Ginny...” Mr. Weasley started, pulling her up and wrapping an arm around her. He looked up at the rest. “Children, what—?”

 “Out of the way, Arthur,” said a cold voice. Harry looked over and identified the speaker as Barty Crouch, some Ministry higher up they had met earlier. He was also Winky’s owner, and the one who had sent her up to the stands to save him the seat and hadn’t even bothered to show up. He looked about ready to explode with rage.

The rest of the wizards, as if following his lead, started to approach, closing in on them.

“Which of you did it?” Crouch demanded, looking at all of them. “Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?”

Crouch wasn’t the only one ready to snap.

“What the _hell_?!” Harry yelled at him, taking a step closer. “You think _we_ did that?!”

George grabbed his right arm, stopping him.

“Harry, calm down,” he hissed, but he didn’t look any happier than Harry felt with the accusation.

“We didn’t do anything!” Ron yelled right after, looking at his father instead of Crouch. “What did you want to attack us for?”

“Do not lie, sir!” Crouch shouted back. He had his wand trained on Ron, and looked like he was somewhat out of his mind. “You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!”

Harry shook George’s hand off and stepped before Ron, standing between him and the wand, and very pointedly didn’t clench his hands into fists. If he had to disarm Crouch, he would have to grab his wand.

“Barty,” whispered a witch behind him, “they’re kids, Barty, they’d never have been able to—”

“Where did the Mark come from?” Mr. Weasley asked quickly.

“Dunno,” Fred replied, “we weren’t here when it was cast.”

“Then _why_ are you here?” Mr. Weasley asked, sounding as if he didn’t know whether to be angry or terrified.

“I came; they followed me,” Harry replied with a shrug.

“ _Harry..._ ” Mr. Weasley hissed at him, now settling more on the angry end of the scale, “why in Merlin’s name would you do that?!”

“Oh, you weren’t here, were you?” Crouch interrupted, turning his distrustful gaze fully on Harry.

“Exactly, so cut the crap.” George slapped a hand over Harry’s mouth, but it was too late.

Crouch took a menacing step forward. Mr. Weasley stood up and moved to block his path.

“Barty, they’re children,” Mr. Weasley insisted. “They didn’t do this.”

Fortunately, nobody else seemed to share Crouch’s opinion that they were responsible for the Dark Mark, because the remaining wizards and witches had moved to scan the clearing in search of the real culprit.

“We’re too late,” said the same witch as before. “They’ll have disapparated.”

“I don’t think so,” another wizard said, and Harry identified him as Amos Diggory, Cedric Diggory’s father. They had met him when they took the portkey, as they had shared it with the Diggorys. “Our stunners went right through those trees...” He pointed over in said direction. “We might have hit them.”

That said, Diggory walked over there, ignoring the warnings he received, and indeed found someone: Winky, Crouch’s house-elf, lay unconscious amongst the trees. Diggory brought her out.

“This... cannot... be,” Crouch said finally, after a very long silence in which everybody had been staring at him. “No...” Then he started searching the area desperately, trying to find anyone else unconscious no doubt, and if George hadn’t been covering his mouth Harry would have said something very smug, very rude, and very insensitive right then.

 “No point, Mr. Crouch,” Diggory said. “There’s no one else there.”

Crouch didn’t listen and kept searching.

“A bit embarrassing,” Diggory said after another uncomfortable silence, looking down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s house-elf... I mean to say...” Harry knew exactly what he meant; after the incident with his son, Crouch’s remaining reputation wouldn’t survive it if his house-elf turned out to be responsible for this.

“Come off it, Amos,” Mr. Weasley said, “you don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.”

“Yes,” Diggory replied, “and she had a wand.”

“What?”

“Here, look.” Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr. Weasley. “She had it in her hand. So that’s clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.”

“Hey, that’s my wand!” Harry yelled, recognising it immediately (his yell also drowned the sound of Bagman apparating into the clearing, but everybody was too busy looking at Harry to pay him much attention).

Crouch immediately reappeared, his face pale and his eyes with a glint of madness.

“ _Your_ wand?” he demanded again.

Harry crossed his arms.

“Yes, my wand. The one I noticed was missing when the assholes at the camp started their merry party. Bet she grabbed it at the match, when she was saving you that seat you didn’t bother to show up to occupy.”

Things only went worse from there. Amos Diggory woke Winky up, and proceeded to interrogate her very aggressively: it was clear from the beginning that he believed she was guilty, and the only reason she wasn’t convicted in any way was because apparently Crouch still had enough status to prevent it. Not that it served Winky much, because then Crouch proceeded to sack her.

By the end of the evening Hermione was fuming with indignation over the way Winky had been treated, and Harry wisely kept it to himself that the argument that had kept Winky out of being dragged off by Diggory (that there was no way she could have learned the spell to cast the Dark Mark at Crouch’s household) didn’t hold up because Barty Crouch Jr. had been a Death Eater. While unlikely —and Harry didn’t believe her guilty after seeing how terrified and clearly confused she had been— the possibility still existed.

The real culprit wasn’t caught.

 

* * *

 

 

Severus was drinking a coffee cup when Marco walked into the kitchen that morning, no trace of an average person’s morning sleepiness on his face.

Smirking, Severus picked up the newspaper that had arrived not long ago and showed the cover page to Marco.

“I believe you said something the other day.”

Marco’s curses when he saw the article about the incident at the Quidditch World Cup would have turned the dunderheads Severus taught green with envy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided against rewriting the match itself, given that nothing of relevance changes. Because Harry is no haki user, he doesn't notice Crouch Jr.'s presence or the theft of his wand. And while I would've loved to just skip the entire mess, I had to write at least part of it, so have insolent Harry taking no bullshit from Crouch.
> 
> Also, in canon they ran into Draco Malfoy in the forest and he mocked them, but here Malfoy is very familiar with Harry's moods, and he's never seen him that angry before. He's smart enough to jump behind a tree and avoid drawing attention to himself, because he knows he'd be lucky if he got away with a broken nose otherwise. Their path is generally different as the one in canon simply because not entering at the exact same time into the forest, not being separated from Fred, George, and Ginny, and not stopping to argue with Malfoy means things go differently altogether. And yes, this has a lot to do with me not wanting to rewrite everything they see. (Basically, in canon, aside from Winky, they run into a group of Beauxbatons students, a bunch of idiots fawking over three veelas, the goblins who steal Bagman's money, and Bagman himself, to whom they tell what's going on in the camp).
> 
> In canon, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in the clearing where Crouch cast the Dark Mark, so they had more time to speak before the adult wizards burst in on them.


	37. Back to Hogwarts

Marco grabbed the newspaper off Severus’ hand and started reading through the article, ignoring Severus’ infuriating smirk as he did. The article was the usual drivel one could expect from a reporter the likes of Rita Skeeter, but it did give some relevant information amongst the many criticisms of the Ministry and what looked like exaggerations of events. Or, more accurately, it _didn’t_ give it. Had there been any casualties, Skeeter would be milking the event dry, but the only mention of such in the article was ‘ _rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later_ ’ (which was absolute rubbish, because if there were any bodies, Skeeter would describe everything up to the most gruesome of details), and the only believable injured she mentioned were the muggle family who ran the camp, already obliviated. And wizards didn’t care about what happened to muggles as long as they could wipe their minds off afterwards.

Marco had just finished reading the article when he sensed a now familiar presence approaching fast.

Still ignoring Severus, who was very clearly waiting for some heartfelt response or a few complaints about Ace’s recklessness (Ace hadn’t been mentioned in the article, which meant somebody had managed to drag him away from the Death Eater mob; probably Hermione), he stood up and went to open the kitchen window. Pigwidgeon careened through it right after, and Marco stopped him midair before he could crash against the opposite kitchen wall.

“How did you know?” Severus asked, sounding mildly impressed —for his standards; most people would describe his voice as condescending right then.

“Haki.”

“It told you that owl would crash into the window if you didn’t open it?” Severus asked sceptically. Severus had been doubtful of haki from the moment Marco had first explained it, and took every demonstration with a reluctant grain of salt.

“Not exactly. I sensed Pig approaching, and from past experience I know he doesn’t know how to stop in time to avoid crashing into things.” Speaking of Pig, he was wiggling in Marco’s hands. Marco let go of him and Pig flew to land on the table, much to Severus’ disapproving glare.

“ _Pig_?”

“Ginny named him Pigwidgeon, and he refused to listen to another name,” Marco explained. He walked up to the table and untied the letter when Pig offered his leg. “So, Pig for short. I don’t suppose you have any owl treats, do you?”

“This is Weasley’s owl?” Severus asked, ignoring the last question and aiming a disdainful look at Pig. Marco half expected him to stand up and move away, but he didn’t. Pig was too busy looking around the unfamiliar kitchen to pay him any attention.

“Yeah. I don’t think Stefan’s back yet.”

Marco ignored Severus’ look —which said that statement was absolutely unhelpful and didn’t explain anything— and opened Ace’s letter. The first line ‘ _I didn’t do ANYTHING!!!!_ ’ had him smiling. He read over the page-long text.

“So, apparently,” he started summarising as he read. Even Severus had to admit Ace would be a more accurate source of information for yesterday’s events than Rita Skeeter, “they woke up the night after the match because the Death Eaters had started to cause a ruckus —they were probably drunk, Ace says, though I’m not so sure of it if they all thought to bring or summon their robes and masks to hide— and people started to flee. The Ministry wizards went to stop the Death Eaters, Ace tried to go beat them up.” Severus scoffed. Marco frowned at the next part. “Only to realise that his wand was missing. _Fucking idiot_. So his friends managed to drag him away before he did something stupid and they hid in the forest with everybody else.”

“Potter being reasonable? Will wonders never cease?” Severus asked sarcastically.

Marco scoffed. Then he read the next sentence and scoffed again.

“Not so fast. It seems they went deeper into the forest to avoid the crowd, and were close to whoever cast the Dark Mark. _Obviously_ , Ace ran straight there to see what was going on. Forget he didn’t have a wand or any way of knowing how many enemies were there. Typical.”

“And you’re supposed to _like_ him?” Severus muttered, and Marco aimed an unimpressed look at him.

“Loving someone doesn’t mean you like or agree with everything they do, and Ace _has_ a tendency to land himself in difficult situations because he doesn’t stop to think things through.”

That silenced Severus, and Marco had the courtesy of not drawing attention to the stricken look that crossed his face. It was no secret to Marco that Severus had idolized Lily Evans to the point of thinking her unable of any wrongdoing. Privately, Marco thought that mindset had contributed to the rift that had been growing between them before their final fight.

“Ministry officials showed up then and, here I quote ‘ _that asshole Crouch decided we must’ve been the ones to cast the Mark, because_ of course _a bunch of school kids, the father of most of them being right there by the way, would go around casting a rarely known dark spell. How the fuck did that guy make it to head of a department? He’s a moron._ ’”

“As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree with Potter,” Severus said. Marco knew that Ace’s words in regards to Crouch were flowery compliments in comparison to what Severus thought about him.

“See? He’s not so bad,” Marco said offhandedly. Then he blinked. ”Hey, how likely is it Crouch Jr. taught their house-elf how to cast the Dark Mark?”

Severus blinked, caught as off guard by the apparently random question as Marco had been by the next sentence in the letter.

“About as likely as Lucius Malfoy suddenly campaigning for house-elf freedom. Why?”

“Because, as it turns out, they found Crouch’s elf in the clearing, and she had Ace’s wand,” Marco muttered the last part. They would have to work a way to prevent any future incidents with Ace’s wand being stolen.

“I bet Crouch was delighted,” Severus said gleefully.

“Oh, yes, so delighted that he fired her, even though it seems nobody thought she had done it and they didn’t even arrest her. And Hermione is now indignant and all up in arms about the way house-elves are treated, by the way.”

Severus scoffed.

“Of course Granger would latch onto something like that,” he said disdainfully.

Marco lowered the letter (there wasn’t much left, just a plea from Ace to remember he couldn’t fit much more studying into his school schedule: Marco might have forgotten to tell him quidditch season was cancelled this year and he would have plenty of time for additional study) and fixed an unamused look on Severus.

“You should really reconsider your attitude towards Hermione.”

“Why?” Severus asked defensively. “She’s an annoying know-it-all. And a student. You know I hate both of those.”

“Yes, you feel a generic, disdainful sort of hatred for those,” Marco agreed, making sure his voice reflected just how stupid and exasperating he believed that attitude to be, “but you don’t feel a generic, disdainful sort of hatred for Hermione Granger. And _don’t_ say you hate her because she’s Harry Potter’s friend and they’ve pulled all sorts of stunts over the years, because you hated her this much even before she became friends with Ace and Ron. Hell, you hate her _more_ than you hate Ron, and I don’t need to attend one of your classes to be able to guess he causes a lot more trouble than she does.”

“Oh? Then, please, do enlighten me. Why do I hate her so much?” Severus asked, his voice at almost his most mocking level, which Marco had always been immune to.

“At first? I think she reminded you of yourself at that age. _Don’t. Interrupt_ ,” Marco snapped, raising a hand, when Severus opened his mouth. His expression indicated he was about to say something that might get him kicked across the room. “She was a brilliant little girl who craved to prove herself to everybody, who didn’t know the first thing about how to make friends, and who pretty obviously had been bullied in school before coming to Hogwarts. While she is clearly from a better family than yours, both in terms of love and money, you had enough in common as it was. Then she became pretty much the most unpopular person in her year, furthering this similarity, and I think having someone who reminded you of how all your hopes for your time in Hogwarts were for nothing angered you. And then she became friends with James Potter’s son. And not only that, but she is liked by most of her teachers, which you weren’t, and you blame that on house bias (which, to an extent, might have influenced it, though I still think the fact she was a well-behaved suck up and you were a moody little shit had more to do with it). So, now, Hermione Granger has basically everything you wanted from Hogwarts: friends, recognition, barely anybody picks on her (and she has people helping her when that happens). And you hate her for it.”

Predictably, Severus stood up and stormed out of the kitchen without a word.

Marco looked down at the still waiting Pig.

“You think he’ll think about it? Because he’s got something coming if he thinks I won’t get back at him if he decides to vent his frustration over this on Hermione.” Pig just hooted. “Yeah, I hope he doesn’t. Anyway...”

Marco stood up and went to hunt down some parchment, a quill, and ink in the sitting room. His response was a short one.

_Ace,_

_I’m astounded to hear you held back from attacking the Death Eaters. But I’m proud of you for recognising you weren’t in a situation to do it._

_Don’t think you’ll get away from some extra training by begging. While I still think nonverbal magic is our priority, you_ are _going to learn how to cast a wandless_ accio _at the very least. Losing your wand when it’s one of your main means of defence is not an option._

_This reminds me I have to tell Severus about your dream (I will, once he decides to talk to me again. He’s kind of pissed at me at the moment). And I think you should tell Albus. Well, not him directly, but maybe write to Padfoot. I know they’re in contact, and he’ll worry and tell Albus about it. I want to know what books he looks into, though we both know why that happened. At the very least, he should strengthen his security a little, even if Moody is a very good paranoid watchdog to have around._

_Have fun your last week of holidays,_

_Marco_

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the morning of September 1st arrived, Stefan still wasn’t back from delivering her letter to Sirius, which meant Harry hadn’t been able to write to him about his dream and the scar. He had, however, told Ron and Hermione. They had reacted in very much the same way they had when he had told them about how everybody thought Sirius was after him last year.

The Ministry was still in an uproar over the Dark Mark incident, and that Skeeter reporter was digging up dirty laundry all over the place (in one of his letters over the week, Marco had told him Skeeter was the most controversial reporter in the British wizarding world, and not in a good way: she wasn’t one of those reporters who talked about things the government would prefer stay buried because she believed in justice or keeping people informed, she did it because she aimed for the highest level of scandal and trouble she could cause with each thing she published); last of all, according to Mr. Weasley, she had discovered about Bertha Jorkins’ disappearance last night.

Ron was in a bad mood because Mrs. Weasley had bought him a horrid formal set of robes when she had gone shopping for the school supplies. Mrs. Weasley, as well as everybody else, had been surprised when Harry had said he had already bought his things, and Hermione had asked him in private if he thought it had been a good idea to go out with Marco to Diagon Alley. She had, however, agreed with Marco’s reasoning for the trip. Harry suspected that, because he had more money, Mrs. Weasley would have bought him more decent robes, but he was relieved nonetheless about not having to risk it.

Hermione was still fuming about the Winky incident, and she had very nearly gotten to blows while arguing about it with Percy more than once.

Fred and George were clearly up to something, and while they denied it everybody knew it had to do with Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. They had won a lot of money at the Quidditch World Cup by guessing the correct, and completely unexpected, result of the match, and Harry suspected they were itching to put that money to good use.

Marco was already at Hogwarts because the teachers were required to report to the school before the students arrived and most of them showed up a couple days before. He had decided to accompany Snape (who had taken three days to speak to him again after whatever argument had happened).

That morning, there was some sort of incident involving Alastor Moody that Mr. Weasley was called away to solve. Harry was kind of creeped out when he saw Amos Diggory’s head floating inside the kitchen fireplace. He knew the floo network could be used that way, but it was his first time witnessing it and it was disturbing on Grand Line —Paradise— standards. By the sounds of it, Mad-Eye Moody was as paranoid and trigger-happy as Marco had told Harry he was, which might be good or a terrible thing, depending on the situation. It could also prove for very interesting Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, and that was a bonus.

Opposite to previous years, they had no magically modified cars to rely on for their trip to King’s Cross, and Mrs. Weasley used a muggle phone —with much better success than Ron’s attempt two years ago— to call three taxis to drive them there. Between an overexcited Pig, some fireworks going off from Fred’s trunk —Fred and George really needed to work on how to better keep their things; those fireworks could’ve been used for a good prank if they had been stored properly— and the resulting scare they gave Crookshanks, by the time they reached King’s Cross Harry had his hands all scratched from holding Crookshanks back and preventing him from scratching everyone else as well, and the taxi drivers were more than relieved to see them go.

This year, they arrived with plenty of time for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to find an empty compartment to store their luggage before they headed back to the platform to say goodbye. Bill and Charlie dropped a few hints about the Triwizard Tournament (apparently, Charlie would be going to Hogwarts, and Harry wondered about the exact reason for it) and Harry realized he hadn’t told anybody else about it. He considered the possibility of doing so as a way to get back at Marco, because Marco would find the others’ reactions amusing, but finally decided that he, too, would probably find them amusing. He settled against mentioning it when even Mrs. Weasley joined in on the teasing.

They spent a good part of the train ride during which Hermione gave them an impromptu lesson on magical schools and the various ways they were concealed, with Ron doubting most of what she said. It was somewhat amusing to see a muggleborn know more than a wizard-raised person about magic, but Harry wasn’t particularly interested in the conversation topic and tuned most of it out. He was going over his own notes about nonverbal magic, because he knew Marco would test him on it at the earliest opportunity. He stopped when Seamus, Dean, and Neville dropped by and the conversation moved on to the World Cup. It was Hermione who lost interest then and pulled out her charms book.

And, of course, Draco Malfoy dropped by for his traditional train visit. Harry wasn’t in the mood to deal with him, so he stunned him and told Crabbe and Goyle to get him out of his sight before he cursed them. Crabbe and Goyle weren’t as keen on going up against Harry alone as Malfoy seemed to be, and they obeyed without posturing (they had tried, a few times, to use their larger frames in an attempt to intimidate him; Harry had laid them flat on their backs).

Once they were approaching Hogsmeade, they changed into their school uniforms. It was raining horribly outside and, like always, Hagrid was calling for the first years to follow him. They exchanged greetings, but didn’t have time to talk much. They hurried on to one of the carriages —the ones pulled by the weird winged horses— with Neville, and climbed gratefully into it. Harry didn’t envy the first year students’ boat trip through the lake.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco watched the multitude of drenched students trudge into the Great Hall from his perch on Albus’ seat, most of them looking grumpier than usual due to the weather and the water balloons Peeves was throwing at them at the Entrance Hall as soon as they thought they were safe from the rain. When they came in, Ron looked particularly sulky, while Hermione was just bothered, and Ace had an annoyingly smug expression on his face. While obviously soaked, he appeared to be the driest person out of all the students that entered at about that time, and Marco guessed he had dodged whatever balloon Peeves had thrown in his direction.

Finally, all the students from second year upwards were seated, and Minerva walked in with the shivering, nervous-looking first years who were far more drenched than anyone else in the Great Hall. Hagrid probably had enjoyed the boat ride through the lake, but Marco doubted any of those children had even managed to appreciate their first sight of Hogwarts under the current weather.

Minerva placed the Sorting Hat’s stool before the staff table and the hat proceeded to sing its new song for the year. Marco fixed his eyes on the hat: ever since he had put it on back in the Chamber of Secrets (he blamed it on curiosity, because Albus had to be really certain of whatever measure was in place within the hat to leave it back with instructions to take it if someone managed to find the Chamber) the hat had known about Marco. It had sworn not to say a word about him unless the current headmaster of the school asked it outright, but Marco found it reassuring to glare at it from time to time to remind it of the very vivid images he had given it about haki-imbued talons shredding it to pieces. Marco was kind of curious to know how much effort it would take to bypass its thousand-year-old wards, but not enough to actually try unless prompted.

The sorting ceremony passed without a hitch or a student taking an unusually long time to be sorted.

As soon as the food appeared, Marco took off from the back of Albus’ chair and settled on the table next to Severus to ask for food.

“Don’t you have someone else to pester?” Severus grumbled, but served some chocolate gateau on a plate that appeared right before Marco, courtesy of the elves, when he pointed at it with a wing (it wasn’t as if Marco could get a bad health by eating poorly, after all, and he felt like having dessert for dinner).

Marco shrugged with his wings, nearly hitting Aurora Sinistra in the process. He threw her an apologetic look, but she only smiled and patted him on the head before turning around to continue her conversation with Pomona Sprout. Honestly, Marco could pester anyone in this table for food, but he guessed that Severus could use some friendly company, because Marco knew Moody didn’t exactly think well of him, and given his reputation there was bound to be some unpleasantness once he showed up. Where Moody even was that he hadn’t shown up for the feast so far was anyone’s guess. Maybe patrolling the school’s perimeter or something like that.

Marco turned to check on Ace’s group throughout the meal. At one point, an expression of absolute horror took over Hermione’s face. Whatever it was, she put her cutlery down, pushed her plate away, and didn’t eat anything else. He would ask about that when he had a chance.

Finally, the meal was over and Albus climbed to his feet to give the start of term speech. Marco flew to the back of his high chair again and very nearly rubbed his wings together in anticipation of the show. Albus first got the usual warnings out of the way (Filch’s ever-growing list of forbidden items that everybody ignored, the forest being, well, forbidden, no Hogsmeade for the students without authorization to go...) and finally, the one announcement Marco had managed to withhold from Ace.

The outrage when Albus declared there would be no quidditch competition this year was beautiful to witness. Ace, Marco noticed, moved back in place as if to stand, a shell-shocked expression on his face. Close to him, Fred and George didn’t look much better. The indignation was common to the whole student body, but most of them were too surprised to voice it out loud.

Albus was about to make the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament (and Marco hoped Ace hadn’t spilled the beans on that one) when the doors to the Great Hall were slammed open, and in came Alastor Moody. The thunderstorm raging outside gave a dramatic air to Moody’s entrance, and the poor lighting (Albus had lowered the lights in the Great Hall for his own dramatic announcement) meant most of the students couldn’t see Moody’s appearance at first sight. When one of the flashes of lightning illuminated his face as he advanced between the tables, there were gasps all over the Great Hall. Marco had to admit Moody’s scars were quite a sight for someone who hadn’t experienced countless battlefields and seen the effects of war and battle before.

It was that first look into Moody’s face that reminded Marco of something he had heard in passing long ago: Moody had lost his left eye during the war, and had replaced it with a magical eye which, amongst other things, could see through walls and invisibility cloaks. Marco would have grimaced if he could, because that was a pain right there. While he knew he would have to tell Albus about himself eventually, he was still working on it, and he didn’t want to deal with the hassle of Albus’ most paranoid and mistrustful follower spotting him in the school by accident. That would be a mess. As such, Marco resolved to stay tuned on to Moody’s haki presence and ensure they didn’t cross paths while he was in human form.

The announcement that Moody was their new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor was met with utter silence by the still shocked students. Marco imagined that many of them had heard stories about Mad-Eye Moody, and those who hadn’t had just experienced a terrible first impression, and there would be a good deal of talking once they were over the shock and away from his hearing range.

Albus continued with his interrupted speech.

While it was a pity that Ace had already known about the Triwizard Tournament, the general outrage over the age requirement to participate more than made up for it. Fred and George, who were left out by a few months, were particularly bitter about it. Privately, Marco was glad that they couldn’t participate: this meant that there was nobody who could take part in the tournament that he would worry about on a personal level.

And so, Ace’s fourth year at Hogwarts began.


	38. Social justice

Marco didn’t have time to catch up with Ace and his friends the first morning of the school year, but he was glad to see that Hermione was over whatever had happened last night and ate breakfast.

He attended the Care of Magical Creatures lesson later that morning, where Hagrid introduced Ace’s class to a brand new creature: the blast-ended screwt (which he had just managed to successfully breed this summer, but he hid that little piece of information from his students). The thing about a new species was that no one knew how to care for them, and Hagrid had the brilliant idea of making the students figure out what they ate through trial and error.

It was a beautiful disaster.

What followed was an hour of mostly terrified kids trying to survive feeding the screwts. Ace earned a good number of odd stares when a screwt’s tail blasted near his hand and he said they were awesome.

Hagrid beamed at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Aside from his visit to the Care of Magical Creatures lesson, Marco spent most of the day in Albus’ office, trying to catch up on the preparations for the tournament.

“I am delighted to see you are back to your bossy self,” Albus commented in amusement when Marco pointed to a stack of tournament-related parchment in a demand for an update.

Marco would have crossed his arms, but because he was unable to do so, he extended a wing and threatened to throw Albus’ bowl of sweets to the ground. While Albus could fix it with a wave of his wand, they both knew that threat was followed by stolen sweets.

Albus chuckled.

“It’s not much, really. We have the three tasks ready, of course, designated for the champions to show their skills and bravery.”

Marco jumped up and shook his head. He wasn’t interested in the tasks, he wanted to know about security. He tapped Albus’ left wrist meaningfully.

“Oh. Professor Karkaroff?” Marco nodded. “Don’t worry about him, Alastor has promised to keep a very close eye on him. Karkaroff’s presence is, after all, one of the main reasons I hired Alastor.” Marco tilted his head in question. “The other, I’m afraid, is that this year there have been no applicants for the position other than Severus.”

Marco scoffed. Yes, that happening had only been a matter of time. The desperation to find a replacement professor had become apparent the moment Albus hired Gilderoy Lockhart two years ago. And, for all that Marco had his issues with the way Albus had handled matters, the students had been lucky last year when Remus Lupin agreed to teach them. Maybe, if the reason Moody left this year wasn’t deadly or even bloody, a brave soul would volunteer for the position next year.

Marco wasn’t holding his breath.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco was surprised when Minerva stormed into the office mid-afternoon fuming over Alastor Moody, who, apparently, had turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret. He wasn’t so surprised to learn that Malfoy had tried to hex Ace right before that, after Ace had punched him for an unexplained reason.

Marco left Minerva to complain to Albus (it wouldn’t matter; Albus’ usual bland attitude towards these things wasn’t helped by the fact that he _needed_ Moody here, and Moody was a trigger-happy nutjob) and went to look for Ace. Marco found him eating at the Great Hall with his friends, looking like he was having fun, just like about everybody else in the room. Marco frowned.

He flew into the room and stole a plate of bread rolls from right in front of Ace as a way of telling him that he wanted to talk. Marco’s —or, well, Fawkes’— habit of either pestering people for food or directly taking what he wanted was well known enough that his action only drew a few chuckles and waves from some students.

While he waited for Ace on the deck of the Moby Dick, he ate the bread rolls and thought about how he was going to say what he needed Ace to understand. He eventually sensed Ace approaching the room of requirement accompanied by Ron and Hermione. Better yet, this way he would only need to do this once.

“What’s the matter?” Ace asked once they were inside the room.

Marco pointed to a space before where he was sitting —he had asked the room not to give them chairs, and unless one of them specifically asked for them, there would be none.

“Did you have fun?”

“You mean about Malfoy?” Ron asked, grinning widely. “That was _brilliant_! I’ll remember it forever, it might even help me if I ever learn how to cast a patronus,” he gushed.

Ace started to grin, too, but froze the moment he glanced at Marco. Hermione was the only one who didn’t smile.

“Brilliant?” Marco repeated. “You just saw a man, a trained auror, turn a boy into a ferret and bounce him around because of a school spat.” Ron opened his mouth, but Marco didn’t let him speak. “I don’t _care_ what he said. It must have been bad if Ace punched him; I’m even going to make a guess and say it had to do with that newspaper article that mentioned your father today, didn’t it, Ron?”

Ron nodded.

“He insulted Ron’s mum,” Ace snapped.

“Yes, and you punched him, which I’m _not_ holding against you. As far as I’m concerned, that was an acceptable reaction. But Moody’s? Can you honestly tell me you see nothing wrong with that?”

“You weren’t there,” Ron said. “It was _great_.”

“It was abuse.”

Hermione was frowning now, and it was obvious the thought that Moody’s action had been dangerous had crossed her mind, but it was clear Ace and Ron still didn’t understand what Marco was trying to say.

Marco sighed.

“What Moody did was extremely dangerous, violent, and could easily have resulted in Malfoy dead had he bounced the wrong way once.” He fixed his eyes on Ace. “And while we, as pirates, weren’t exactly a model of peaceful reactions, especially when someone insulted our own, can you honestly tell me you would’ve endangered the life of a _fourteen year old kid_ like that?” _Now_ Ace understood. His eyes widened and he shook his head. The Whitebeard Pirates had gotten in their fair deal of fights due to insults, both as a crew and as individuals, but the most they would have done if the insult had come from someone like Malfoy would have been a glare and saying something that would make the kid reconsider their worldview, either out of fear or logic.

“And if it’s so bad, why is Moody here?” Ron asked stubbornly. He didn’t appear willing to change his mind, and Marco started to doubt he could convince him. Ron _was_ a fourteen year old himself, a stubborn brat too set on his ideas who didn’t have either an adult life’s perspective like Ace, nor Hermione’s greater sensitivity towards the rest of the world.

“Extra security for the tournament. Under normal circumstances, Alastor Moody wouldn’t have been allowed to teach students.” Or, at least, Marco hoped Albus wouldn’t have hired him. But there were other sets of circumstances aside from the tournament where he knew Albus would have allowed Moody’s behaviour, such as during war time.

Ron crossed his arms and didn’t say anything else on the subject. Marco rolled his eyes and looked to Ace and Hermione, sending them the message that it was up to them to get Ron to start having a little more perspective on the world.

“Alright,” Marco said finally, now asking the room for three extra chairs, “how was your day?”

That, predictably, set Ace off on a long complaint about Trelawney and her unreasonable homework assignment: a prediction of an entire month of their lives based on the current nonsense they were studying. Marco suggested Hagrid’s screwts were bound to cause a few accidents, which would help appease a little Trelawney’s thirst for disgrace.

Hermione excused herself soon after to go to the library. Apparently, the only reason she hadn’t been there already was because she had been curious about what Marco wanted. After she left, Marco asked Ace and Ron what she was researching, but they just shrugged.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a great deal of anticipation over Moody’s classes. Marco had heard many students who had already attended one telling the ones who hadn’t about how _good_ Moody was. It made sense, to an extent. While Marco doubted Moody knew the first thing about how to teach children, his knowledge about how to fight the dark arts was unarguable. Keeping in mind what was to come, this year’s lessons would prove very valuable to the students in the future.

Currently, though, it was Tuesday evening, and Marco had spent two hours hidden underneath the teacher’s desk of Severus’ classroom in his small form observing how Severus utterly destroyed Neville Longbottom during a detention (he had learnt about this detention because stories about melted cauldrons in Potions class tended to run like wildfire through the student body). Marco had shown up in the classroom five minutes before Longbottom was scheduled to arrive and, ignoring Severus’ glare and sarcastic comment about his presence, settled underneath the desk, where Longbottom wouldn’t see him but from where he could listen in to the detention.

“You really should reconsider your behaviour towards that kid,” Marco said, transforming the moment Longbottom was finally allowed to flee the classroom.

“Are you going to question my behaviour with every single student?” Severus said. He bent over the barrel of horned toads he had made Longbottom disembowel and started to select the parts that were still useful for potion making. There weren’t many. “It’s one of my few pleasures in life.”

Marco snorted and sat on the desk.

“While I won’t argue that you seem to derive a certain amount of sick pleasure out of tormenting students, Neville Longbottom is an exception. He angers you too much, and you’re in a worse mood after interacting with him than you were before that.”

“That wouldn’t happen if Longbottom wasn’t such an incompetent, spineless fool,” Severus growled. So far, he had managed to fill half a jar of ingredients, and thrown five times that amount into the rubbish bin.

“That’s kind of my point, actually. Nobody argues that Longbottom is hopeless at Potions, and no amount of harassing him will change that fact. By doing so, you’re making him perform even worse, and what would be a nuisance to you turns into a source of anger and stress. And you really could do with a reduction of those two right now.”

“Why?”

Just then, Marco realized he had never gotten around to telling Severus about Ace’s dream. He grimaced.

“You’ll want to ward the classroom for this.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Severus sarcastically, but he did.

 

* * *

 

 

“That class was awesome,” Harry said Thursday evening, sprawled on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“From what I hear, that’s what everybody says,” Marco replied. He had been paging distractedly through a few books since Harry’s arrival: it looked more like he was checking the books’ contents than reading through them, because Harry knew for a fact Marco didn’t read _that_ fast. “What did you learn?”

“Moody told us about the unforgivable curses,” (which Harry had already known about, at least what they did), “and showed their effects on spiders.”

“Well, that _is_ useful. No amount of theory can make up for a practical demonstration. The unforgivable curses are the Death Eaters’ favourites; this way your classmates know what they’ll be dealing with.”

Harry grimaced. He somehow doubted anyone in that classroom other than himself, Ron, and Hermione had seriously considered they would ever be facing those curses (maybe if someone wanted to be an auror, but Harry wasn’t aware anyone did), but Marco had a very good point.

“There was something odd,” Harry said, remembering the lesson. “Moody asked us if we knew which were these curses, and Neville raised his hand to say one. That’s odd enough, but then Moody stared at him and asked if his name was Longbottom, as if he knew him or something. And at the end of the class, he asked Neville to stay behind and lent him a book on plants.” And, incidentally, Herbology was Neville’s favourite subject.

Marco closed the book, holding his place with a couple fingers between the pages, and looked at him.

“It’s not that odd.”

“Why not?”

Marco hesitated for a moment before nodding to himself.

“Maybe you should know. Do you remember the prophecy’s contents?”

“Of course I do,” Harry almost growled. He had that thing’s words practically burnt into his mind.

“Following the parameters of the prophecy, there were two children who it could have referred to: you and Neville Longbottom.”

Harry sat up, eyes wide, and stared at Marco.

“Are you saying _Neville_ could have been stuck with this shit?”

Marco nodded, and it was the first time Harry felt glad that he was the one saddled with Voldemort. He liked Neville, but Harry doubted he would have survived, say, his encounter with Voldemort over the Philosopher’s Stone.

“His parents were in the Order, too, and they had defied Voldemort three times, like yours. Neville was born a day before you did, but finally Voldemort settled on you as the boy from the prophecy. Albus thinks it’s because, as a half-blood, you had more in common with him. Who knows. Remember I told you about Crouch’s son having been a Death Eater? Not long after Voldemort’s disappearance, he and other three of his followers decided they wanted to bring him back, and for some reason thought the Longbottoms would know something.”

“Did they kill them?” Harry asked, remembering Neville’s reaction when Moody had demonstrated the cruciatus curse. He had looked close to fainting.

“No, but I have no doubt the Longbottoms wished they had. They tortured them into insanity with the cruciatus curse.”

“You can _do_ that?!”

“Unfortunately.”

Harry thought back to his lesson with Moody. The only one of the unforgivable curses that could be countered to an extent was the _imperius_ , and only if you had an extraordinary willpower (given that he had been a haoshoku haki user as Ace, even if an untrained one, Harry expected he could resist it), but the other two couldn’t be stopped. Dodging them and neutralizing who was trying to cast them was the only way.

“I think I’ll ask Ginny, Fred, and George to join the lessons with Ron and Hermione,” said Harry.

“At this rate you’ll have to pay me for the classes,” Marco said, and Harry smiled slightly, grateful for the light comment.

“What’s that, anyway?” he asked, pointing to the books.

“Your homework on wandless magic.”

“Oh, _come on_! I have that hellish assignment from Trelawney to hand in on Monday!”

Marco shrugged.

“This is more important.” He waved around the book he had been looking through. “Bring over your divination homework and I’ll help you make up a suitably disastrous month to hand in to her.”

 

* * *

 

 

“No,” Marco said, cutting Hermione off halfway through her rant.

Harry looked at him, surprised. He had expected Marco to humour her, the same way Harry and Ron had last night. Instead, Marco crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at a gaping Hermione.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” she asked, making a clear effort to stay calm and not yell at Marco. She had been in full tirade mode seconds ago, and over a topic she was obviously very passionate about.

Marco reached out for the S.P.E.W. badge Hermione had tried to force on him and looked down at it.

“You have good intentions. I suppose you’ve spent the entire week researching how to create these and how to start your organization, right?” Hermione nodded, now crossing her own arms and looking up at Marco in a mix of puzzlement and annoyance. “But you’re approaching it in the worst way possible.”

“I’m not! This is outrageous! It’s _slavery_!”

“True,” Marco said, cutting her off before she could reach full rant mode again. Marco put the badge in his pocket, earning a confused look from Ron (who didn’t understand the first thing of why Hermione was so indignant; Harry at least understood where she came from, even if he thought this little organization of hers would be useless). “And yet, that’s the only lifestyle they know. House-elves have been enslaved to wizards for thousands of years, as you probably know by now; it’s reached a point where they can’t fathom the idea of _not_ being slaves, and the most common belief amongst wizards and witches in regards to them is that house-elves like being slaves.” Two deck chairs appeared, one behind Marco and another behind Hermione. He sat down, but she didn’t. “I imagine you’ve argued over this with Ron a few times, haven’t you?”

Ron raised his hands in the air, suddenly looking nervous now that both Marco and Hermione looked to him.

“They are!” he exclaimed. “You can ask anybody.”

Harry sighed. Here they went again.

“They _aren’t_ , Ron! It’s brainwashing!” Hermione snapped at him.

“Exactly,” Marco said calmly, cutting of the argument. Harry really needed to learn to do that; he always had to yell to stop an argument, or just leave the room. “They’re brainwashed, Hermione. If you charge in telling them absolutely everything in their lives is wrong and trying to force the change, they will oppose you as much as wizards will.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” she snapped, fisting her hands. “This is _wrong_!”

Marco shrugged.

“Take a breath, to begin with. Changing the status quo of an entire species in the wizarding world is not something you can do in a few months; it’s a lifetime’s goal. You’re still a kid, and passionate about this, but can you honestly tell me you’ve acquired the necessary knowledge to start something like this in... what, four days in the library?”

Hermione deflated and dropped on her chair, sighing.

“I guess I have to research more.”

Ron scoffed, but Harry kicked him before he could say anything stupid.

“Don’t just read books,” Harry surprised himself by saying. “You have the kitchens, too. Can’t you... I don’t know, get to know the elves or something? That’d probably give you a better idea than reading the laws.”

“You _know_ how to go there!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “Right?! You got all that food ready for Marco’s birthday last year!”

 

* * *

 

 

The visit to the kitchens was, surprisingly, not a disaster. Marco and Harry spent most of it making sure that Hermione wouldn’t offend the house-elves, but other than glaring occasionally at Ron, she agreed to just be polite and ask mostly innocuous questions about what they did and how they worked, the sort of things Harry had heard her complain weren’t mentioned in her beloved _Hogwarts: A History_ (which didn’t mention house-elves at all, and might not be her most beloved book anymore).

By the end of the visit Harry and Ron had eaten to their hearts’ content and Hermione had a full roll of parchment with first-hand account of house-elf stories: they were happy to tell them, if asked properly, though Harry suspected the elves were under the impression that Hermione had asked them because she was considering having her own house-elf in the future. He would never let her know.

Marco had arranged to have some food and bottles of water sent up to their classroom before the time they were going to meet at the room of requirement for the group training session. Apparently, he always did, but Harry had never wondered about the food and drinks before. Harry had already talked to Fred, George, and Ginny, and Ron had grinned vindictively when he learnt his siblings would go through the training sessions too.

 

* * *

 

 

As much as she had scolded Ron for his glee about his siblings joining the training, Hermione had to admit that she found their reactions hilarious. She had kept exercising during the summer, and obviously so had Ron (as he confessed, he did it mostly because he didn’t want to suffer like he had at first), and so the first day wasn’t absolutely miserable for them.

Fred, George, and Ginny obviously didn’t know what they had signed into when they agreed to it, and an hour after their arrival they practically dropped in exhaustion on deck once Marco said it was enough for them, then they had to drag themselves up again to stretch. Judging by Marco’s smirk, he had let that happen on purpose.

Hermione almost fell on her butt when Ron whispered to her that at this rate Ginny would be over her crush on Marco in a month. She had chuckled and replied in two months she would be over Harry, too, because Harry had been laughing most of the hour and doing considerably more complicated things as if they took no effort at all.

Fred and George returned the favour by laughing at Harry when he started sparring with Marco and losing every single time, sometimes in a matter of seconds. Ginny was too busy staring at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd ALWAYS wanted to write someone giving Hermione a little perspective on why her approach to the house-elves' situation isn't the best. I've just scratched the surface, though, because I could spend chapters on it if I get going, but that's not the point of the fic.
> 
> I didn't mention Dobby or Winky on the kitchens' part because, according to Dobby, they had been at the school for a week before the trio saw them in canon, and that meeting happened after the first task.
> 
> In canon, Sirius' reply to Harry's letter arrived the same night Hermione started S.P.E.W. (Thursday night), but here Harry wrote to him a few days later, so the reply has yet to arrive.


	39. The champions

The first few weeks of school were mostly uneventful ones. Stefan returned the second week with a reply from Sirius, in which he asked a few questions about the incident during the World Cup and commiserated with Harry about not being allowed to try for the tournament. After a brief debate with himself, Harry added to his response a short explanation of his dream about Voldemort and his scar hurting. If Harry and Marco were right, then there was a very real possibility of the war starting sooner than they had expected, and in that case Harry wanted Sirius to be forewarned about it.

Harry started reading on wandless magic, grateful to realise that Marco hadn’t given him any horribly dense text to study. While it was boring, that added homework meant Marco took care of some of Harry’s most annoying class assignments in exchange, and at least this was more useful. And yes, Hermione was still extremely disapproving of this practice, but she had learned her lesson about how futile it was to scold them about it.

As for his friends, Fred, George, and Ginny slowly grew used to Marco’s beginner training regime, Ron despaired about their massive homework load (but didn’t bother to try to convince Marco to help him this time around), and Hermione took to campaigning for house-elf rights in the common room. She at least accepted Harry’s suggestion that harassing people to join S.P.E.W. and following them around with passionate speeches would gain her more enemies than allies, and she spent a lot of time in the library, both researching for her homework and her campaign.

Something interesting happened on the third week of classes, when Professor Moody announced that he would cast the _imperius_ on the class. Hermione was suitably horrified about how doing such a thing was against the law, but Harry had to hold back a grin. This was a good chance for him to test his resistance to that curse.

What followed was a succession of Harry’s classmates doing absolutely ridiculous things or, in some cases, things that Harry was fairly certain they wouldn’t have been capable of doing on their own.

Finally, Harry’s turn arrived.

He walked forward, into the middle of the classroom, and squared his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how much effort it would take to resist the curse, but he was determined to manage it.

Moody pointed his wand at Harry.

“ _Imperio!_ ”

And Harry... it was odd. Wonderful was the word he would use to define how he felt. It was as if he was floating in a cloud of calm and happiness, where no worries could reach him and there was nothing wrong with the world.

That lasted until he heard Moody’s distant voice telling him to jump onto the desk. It sounded like a good idea for all of a fraction of a second before Harry remembered his determination _not_ to obey any orders.

Moving was difficult, his body _wanted_ to jump, and resisted doing anything else, but he managed to raise his slightly shaking arms and cross them over his chest instead of jumping, ignoring Moody’s voice as it grew louder and more demanding in his head.

“I don’t feel like it,” Harry forced out, and suddenly the odd cloud vanished.

“Now, that’s more like it!” Moody... well, not exclaimed, because Harry doubted he knew how to do that, but kind of growled in approval. “Look at that, you lot... Potter fought! He fought it, and he beat it!”

Harry grinned widely at his classmates.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, how was the _imperius_?” Marco asked him later that day in the room of requirement. Harry had snuck out there alone just so he could boast a little, and he grinned widely.

“I resisted it, of course. Didn’t even do anything stupid while trying. Though it took more effort than I expected,” he admitted, because he was slightly sore about the fact that his arms had trembled and it had cost him a little to speak.

“You do realise most people can’t resist that curse, don’t you?” Marco asked him, amused. “You can’t expect to do it perfectly the first time around.”

“Yeah, but—“ Harry froze, cutting himself off before his next complaint came out. Marco didn’t know, Marco _shouldn’t_ know, because it would do them no good if he did.

“But what?” Marco asked.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, frowned, and dropped back on the deck so he wasn’t looking Marco in the face.

“I’m supposed to be better than the average wizard.”

Marco laughed, and didn’t press him any further.

That was good, because back then, as Ace, he had never shared the story about his one time use of haoshoku haki when he was ten. It had never happened again, and he had believed it had been a fluke of sorts, convinced that if he really was a haki user, his haki would surely have appeared during one of his many failed attempts on Pops’ life. Maybe it had been a fluke, or maybe it hadn’t, but Harry didn’t want Marco to know about it, because if it _hadn’t_ been a fluke, then it meant Ace could have been trained to learn to use haki, and then he might have survived Marineford.

Hell, Marineford might not have happened at all if he had been a haki user when he fought Teach on Banaro Island.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re an arse,” Marco told Severus as a way of greeting when he walked into Severus’ quarters one Tuesday evening.

“What have I done to merit such a title?” Severus asked distractedly. He was obviously correcting homework, because Marco doubted he used red ink to write anything other than snide remarks on students’ essays.

“Did you really imply that you will poison one of the fourth years before Christmas?”

Severus smirked.

“I may have hinted at something of the sort. It’s not my fault those dunderheads won’t take their homework seriously unless their lives are threatened.”

Marco snorted. He walked up to Severus’ couch and dropped down on it.

“Well, thank you for the extra homework, then.”

Severus raised his head to look at him.

“I really hope you’re _not_ doing Potter’s homework,” he said bitingly. “I thought you were smarter than the drivel he usually hands in.”

Marco snorted again, and ignored Severus’ glare when he put his feet on the coffee table.

“Not his Potions homework, but I’ve made up a lot of ridiculous disgraces for Divination since the year started.”

“And why, pray tell, are you wasting your time with that?” Severus asked, his derision for Trelawney dripping into his voice.

“Because Ace doesn’t have the time,” Marco replied, and continued before Severus could say something about how Ace had the exact same amount of homework as all his classmates. “Don’t forget I’m training him, and that takes up a lot of his free time. This is more important than some stupid disgrace calendar or an essay on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century.”

Severus remained silent for a long moment.

“You really think the war is coming?”

“You don’t? How’s the Mark?”

Severus frowned and glared down at his left forearm.

“Darker than it should be,” he admitted.

“Well, there’s your response then. I want Ace as prepared as possible by the time our esteemed tyrant is back.”

Severus scoffed, but he didn’t argue with him.

“Is that why you were reading up on nonverbal magic at Spinner’s End?” Severus asked instead. “You can’t seriously expect Potter to manage such a thing.”

“We’ll see,” Marco replied, not in the mood to get in a debate about Severus’ disdain for Ace’s skills in particular or the general belief that a fourteen year old couldn’t manage more advanced forms of magic. “Do you have anything to drink?”

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow, Marco’s birthday had turned into a tradition. Even before Harry thought to start preparing it, Fred and George cornered him to demand to be allowed to take care of the preparations. They, apparently, had heard about it from Ron, and had things they wanted to try. Harry was a little wary about letting them do it, but eventually curiosity won over his wariness and he agreed, telling them that he would make them regret it if they slipped anything funny into the food.

As it turned out, there were no attempts at poisoning or having anyone unwittingly test one of their experimental items for their future joke shop, but they had been tinkering with the process of creating fireworks and they took the chance to see how creative they could be about it.

Even though they held the party on the afternoon, as soon as they were all done with their classes for the day, the Room of Requirement provided them with a starry sky night above the Moby Dick, and all sort of shapes filled it once Fred and George started their fireworks show. They could have done without the dick-shaped ones, though, but Fred defended that choice by saying that those would be a success once they started selling them. He was probably right.

Harry’s favourite was when he saw they had managed to create the Whitebeard Pirates’ flag. And with all the right colours.

 

* * *

 

 

On late October, an announcement appeared on the Entrance Hall informing the students that the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would arrive on October 30th, and instructed the students to assemble outside of the castle at the time of arrival to welcome their guests.

After that announcement, the excitement over the tournament returned tenfold to the school, and Harry pretty much hid in the room of requirement whenever he wasn’t in class or had to be in the common room, because he was tired of hearing everybody speculate about the tasks, the foreign students, and the potential Hogwarts champion when Harry himself couldn’t compete.

Marco had the decency not to tease him too much about the tournament, and instead agreed to increase Harry’s training regime for the time being. Harry had started on his attempts at nonverbal magic halfway through September, but so far he wasn’t having much success with it. He didn’t bother to try to mutter the spells under his breath, aware that Marco would hear him and make him regret it. He instead accepted any tips Marco occasionally had for him, pretending he didn’t know that whenever Marco suggested something that wasn’t in a book it had most likely come from Snape. It was kind of hilarious to realise that Snape could be a reasonably competent teacher when he wasn’t in the room to ruin things with his mere presence.

On an interesting side note, the only people who seemed to have something in their minds other than the Triwizard Tournament were Fred and George. That was odd in itself, because they had been very vocal about their disappointment at not being allowed to participate during the start of term feast, and it became odder when they made it clear they didn’t want anyone to interfere with whatever it was that bothered them. Harry asked Marco if he knew anything, but Marco said he hadn’t noticed anything strange, which meant that whatever Fred and George were up to didn’t involve sneaking around the castle or anything else that would attract Marco’s attention.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, the thirtieth of October arrived, and with it came the end of Harry’s successful efforts to avoid being involved in anything related to the tournament.

Harry was less than pleased to find himself standing in line with all the other students, having been forced to wear the uncomfortable uniform hat for the occasion. McGonagall had tried to get him to remove his necklace, the only one of his accessories that stood out with his robes buttoned up, but Harry had glared up at her, crossed his arms, and stated that he either stood there with his necklace of he would leave. McGonagall knew him well enough to realise no amount of detentions would make him change his mind, and had walked off to scold Parvati Patil for the large butterfly hairpin she had put on after giving Harry one last disapproving glare. Harry had smirked smugly when Parvati had said that if Harry wasn’t removing his necklace, then she wouldn’t remove her hairpin either. McGonagall had thrown Harry another glare after that response.

Marco had perched himself above the entrance doors and waved a wing at Harry when Harry looked up at him.

Predictably, so much that Harry hadn’t even bothered to comment on it while everybody debated how the other schools would arrive, said schools put on a bit of a show for their entrances. The Beauxbatons delegation arrived on a giant flying carriage, and the Durmstrang one showed up on a very interesting ship that somehow appeared in the middle of the lake, and which Harry kind of wanted to explore.

And then Viktor Krum stepped out from amongst the Durmstrang students, and many of the Hogwarts ones very nearly lost it. Ron certainly sounded excited when he identified Krum.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco watched as the feast progressed and finally, once it was over, as Albus stood up and gave a brief explanation of how the tournament would work. He saw Ace’s eyes focus on the Goblet of Fire, and then slid up to Marco’s position once Albus mentioned the age line he was going to place around the goblet. Marco held back a sigh, but headed up to their classroom once the feast was over.

It wasn’t long before he sensed Ace approaching.

“I’m not going to enter your name for you,” Marco said as soon as Ace walked into the classroom.

“Why not?” Ace demanded, slamming the door shut. Marco was reasonably certain that hadn’t been Ace’s original intention, but it didn’t matter: Filch wasn’t anywhere close enough to have heard it.

“Because I, personally, appreciate the chance to have a calmer year. You want to enter the tournament? Go ahead, figure out a way in on your own.”

Ace glared at him.

“And how the _hell_ am I supposed to figure out how to fool that stupid goblet in twenty-four hours?” he demanded, and Marco shrugged.

“Consider it the first task.” There was no way around it, short of convincing someone above seventeen to enter his name for him. Part of the reason Albus had only allowed a twenty-four hour margin to enter the names was to prevent anyone from figuring out one of the few other ways to fool the Goblet of Fire. There was nothing to be done about the possibility of a student convincing an older one to enter their name. Albus was counting on a mix of decency and pettiness on the part of the older students preventing that from happening.

 

* * *

 

 

“Nice beards earlier,” Marco said when Fred and George walked into the room of requirement. They had arrived later than everybody else, because they had needed to go to the hospital wing to have Madam Pomfrey remove the beards that had sprouted on their chins after their failed attempt to get past Albus’ age line.

Fred and George grinned in amusement, but then they both got the same looks of realisation and Fred opened his mouth.

“Don’t bother,” Harry interrupted them, aware of what they intended to ask. “I already tried, but Marco has decided to be a spoilsport.”

Marco scoffed.

“I’m not getting any of you into the tournament. Now get over here. You’re late, so you can do with an extra half hour of training.”

Fred and George groaned in unison.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco spent most of the Halloween feast pestering the Gryffindor table for food. It had been a necessity to leave the staff table behind, because it was painstakingly obvious that Hagrid had a massive crush on Madame Maxime, and Marco didn’t want to spend the entire feast attempting not to choke on food due to laughter. Yes, it was a bit mean on his part considering that Hagrid was his friend, but Hagrid didn’t know the first thing about flirting. Or dressing to impress, for that matter. Marco mostly stuck around Fred and George, leaving a couple seats separating him from Ace so he would have access to plates that actually had food.

When the food finally disappeared, Marco flew up and returned to his original spot on the back of Albus’ seat for the announcement of the champions.

Albus gave him an amused smile before moving to his feet. He delivered the instructions for the champions to head to the door behind the staff table once they were called, and dramatically extinguished the lights of most of the candles in the room.

Finally, the Goblet of Fire was ready to give the names.

The first champion announced was Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang. There was a massive amount of applause and cheering, and Marco guessed Krum’s involvement in the tournament would draw a lot of attention from the press.

The Beauxbatons champion was a girl named Fleur Delacour. Marco was surprised to recognise her as the girl Ace had pointed out earlier with a smirk and told Marco that Ron had a crush on her. Judging by the amount of students that were nearly salivating, Ron wasn’t the only one.

Cedric Diggory was announced to be the Hogwarts champion. Marco recognised him, but not for a bad reason: he was part of the Hufflepuff quidditch team and, if Marco wasn’t mistaken, was the one who had attempted to convince Hooch to repeat the match last year after the dementors swarmed the quidditch pitch. Marco hadn’t had to pull a single prank on him in the past, either.

The applause this time was deafening, especially from the Hufflepuff table. Hufflepuff rarely received credit for anything, and they looked ecstatic by the news.

Albus started speaking again once the cheering for Diggory died down, but he was interrupted when the Goblet of Fire expelled a fourth piece of parchment.

 _Oh, fuck_ , Marco thought, certain that he knew what the parchment said even before Albus called Ace’s name out loud.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had flown into the back room following the large group of professors, but he ignored most of the argument that ensued. Looking at Ace’s annoyed expression, and hearing him vehemently deny that he had put his name into the Goblet of Fire, Marco was certain that he was saying the truth. Ace had wanted to participate in the tournament, that was true, but now he didn’t look happy at all. He was clearly bothered that someone had entered his name into the tournament behind his back.

Which begged the question of who had done it.

Marco’s mind went immediately to Ace’s dream, and to the very real possibility that there was someone working for Voldemort at the school. The problem was that this incident didn’t shed much light on that person’s identity. Anyone of age could have put the name in the fire, and as for how they had confused the goblet to select four champions... well, the Goblet of Fire had been selecting the Triwizard Tournament’s champions since the very beginning, so Voldemort or whoever worked for him had disposed of plenty of time to plan that little detail. Even if the existence of the goblet wasn’t mentioned in many places, such as Hermione’s beloved _Hogwarts: A History_ , someone could learn about the specifics of the tournament if they looked hard enough for them. Or Bertha Jorkins had known about the goblet and saved them the effort.

Severus sought out Marco’s eyes at some point during the discussion, and Marco shook his head to indicate that no, he hadn’t put Ace’s name into the goblet, and hopefully send the message that Ace hadn’t, either. Severus understood it, because he stated that there was no way Ace could have tricked the goblet. Marco appreciated the support, even if it would have been much nicer if Severus didn’t defend his point by questioning Ace’s skills the way he did.

Oh, well, miracles and all that.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry entered the first empty classroom he found after he separated from Diggory and plopped down on a chair. He wasn’t sure how he felt. On one hand, he was in the tournament, which was great; but on the other hand, he was fairly certain this proved that someone was out for his blood. That wasn’t a novelty, of course, and he was sure he _could_ deal with almost anything this tournament threw at him, but he felt kind of bad about the whole thing. Marco had been counting on a calm year, which he kind of deserved after the last three, and now it couldn’t be.

Marco flew into the room, kicked the door closed, and transformed.

“Any suspects?” Harry asked, aware that Marco knew him well enough to realise he hadn’t managed to put his own name in the goblet.

“No. Anyone could’ve done it, and nobody acted oddly for the circumstances.”

“Joy,” Harry muttered. “What now?”

“Now you’re going to go to your common room and endure whatever reaction your House has. And _stay calm_. This is going to cause a lot of backlash.”

Harry snorted. Yes, he could imagine as much. This was going to be the Chamber of Secrets all over again, except that nobody would be expecting him to sneak out to meet with his killer monster. Hopefully.

“Also, as a champion, you’re exempt from exams,” Marco continued. “While you still have to attend classes and hand in homework, this means you’ll have a lot of extra time, and we’re going to take advantage of it.”

This time, Harry grimaced. He could just imagine how much Marco was going to increase his training. It was a good thing there was no quidditch this year, after all.

“Anything else?”

“Not now. I wasn’t paying much attention to the tournament itself, so I don’t know what the tasks are. Yet.”

“Isn’t it against some rule that you tell me?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Not really. It’s against the rules if anyone involved tells you, but I’m not one of them, so...” Marco shrugged. “This tournament isn’t a joke, Ace, it was originally cancelled because too many people died during it. I don’t care about rules or playing fair, especially with Voldemort involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some serious issues with Rowling's dates. Whenever an exact date comes up, it's obvious she made it up, and it bothers me because it wouldn't have been any problem to chack a calendar. On the announcement about the delegations' arrival it says Friday, October 30th, but if you look up 1994 you'll see October 30th was a Sunday. But well, I've decided to use Rowling's dates because some of them might prove relevant later on. It still bothers me.
> 
> Also, I am of the opinion that, while Ace didn't realise that he had used haki back when he was a kid, he must've figured out something had happened that night after the fight was over, and later (probably once he was in the New World) realised he had used Haoshoku Haki. I think this because when Luffy used it at Marineford, Ace's reaction was to say "you too?" which is very telling. I also don't think he'd told anybody, or he would have been trained to learn to use haki and most likely survived Marineford. Or outright defeated Teach at Banaro. You know, the happy world Oda denied us.


	40. The wizarding press

Marco had spent a good part of the night awake and listening to the long argument that took place in Albus’ office once the three heads of the schools had reached it. There was no substantial information to be gained from it, but it was a good chance to analyse Karkaroff and Maxime’s behaviour once their initial outrage had passed. Marco didn’t _think_ they would do anything stupid under Albus’ nose —Karkaroff was too much of a coward to risk it, and Maxime didn’t strike Marco as the sort of person to deliberately harm someone out of spite— but he wasn’t taking any chances with Ace’s safety.

The late night meant that Marco barely made it into the Great Hall on time to harass food out of the stragglers at the end of breakfast, and there wasn’t enough people to listen to many opinions about last night’s events. Still, Marco thought he gathered an accurate impression of the students’ reactions: everybody believed that Ace had put his name into the Goblet of Fire, and while some Gryffindors thought it was neat, most people were either angry, indignant, or otherwise bothered about it.

Another normal year, it would seem.

Marco decided to look for Ace, and was unsurprised to sense he was in the room of requirement. He was, however, surprised to realise that nobody else was there. Curious. Marco would have expected Ace’s friends to gather around him in a similar way to what had happened when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and most of the school believed Ace to be the Heir of Slytherin.

The room of requirement’s door didn’t appear when Marco flew three times before the wall asking for the Moby Dick.

_He’s asked for something else?_

Feeling even more curiosity now, Marco tried a few other combinations of places they had asked the room for in the past, but nothing worked. He eventually gave up and decided to look for someone else. He located Ron’s presence amongst what seemed to be a large group of students, but Hermione was alone in the library.

Marco flew there, intent on dragging Hermione off to a classroom to talk, but Hermione grimaced the moment she saw him — _bad sign_ — and gestured for him to wait. The library was deserted save for them and Madam Pince, so Marco settled on the table while Hermione grabbed a blank piece of parchment and began to write on it quickly. She then tore the written text off the rest of the scroll+ and set it before Marco so he could read.

Marco would have grimaced upon reading the first sentence if he could _._

_Ron is jealous. He accused Harry of convincing you to put his name in the Goblet, and while I don’t think he really believes that, he’s acting like a child. Harry is in a very bad mood._

Marco covered his face with his wings.

 _Joy_ , he thought dryly.

He made a point of looking around, though he knew Madam Pince was too far from them to actually hear anything unless they yelled, and then transformed. Hermione gasped, startled, which would have been amusing under any other circumstances.

“How much of a bad mood?” Marco asked in a hushed voice, sitting on the table.

“I... _bad_. I talked to Ron at breakfast, and if he told Harry half the things he told me... he’s going on about money, fame, and how Harry wouldn’t have lost anything by letting Ron put his name.”

Marco grimaced, and muttered a few choice curses that had Hermione glaring at him.

“Will you talk to him?” Hermione asked instead of admonishing him.

“Ace, or Ron?”

“Both.”

Marco shook his head.

“I’ll catch Ace as soon as I can and make sure he lets some of his anger out,” Ace was probably doing it right now, but a fight would work way better than blowing some things up, “but I won’t talk to Ron.”

“Why not?” Hermione blurted out. “You helped, last year.”

“Yes, but last year was different. Even if it was ridiculous, they had a reason to be angry with you. But this?” Marco gestured vaguely with a hand. “How long has Ron known Ace? If he’s seriously willing to pretend Ace went behind his back and play the victim, it’s his damn problem. I’m not going to intervene just because he’s jealous. Besides, I’m pretty sure both you and Ace have told him the same things I would have to say.”

  


* * *

   


   


Later that day, Marco caught up to Ace halfway to the owlery, and took advantage of the fact that the place was empty to transform.

“Has Sirius replied to you?” he asked, looking at the letter Ace was carrying, instead of mentioning Ron.

“No, but I figured I should tell him about this. He’ll probably see it on a newspaper eventually, wherever he is,” Ace replied, looking around at the many school owls.

“Mmmh. Have you eaten?” It was way past lunchtime, and Marco knew for a fact that Ace hadn’t gone to the Great Hall.

Ace scoffed.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea. If anyone makes a funny comment, I’ll probably break their arm or something.” Ace finally chose an owl and walked up to it to tie his letter to the owl’s leg.

Marco smiled.

“True. Why don’t we go to the kitchens and then I’ll kick your ass until you’re in no mood to break any arms?”

  


* * *

   


   


Predictably, the return to classes on Monday was as unpleasant as the school could make it without outright violence. The Hufflepuffs on Harry’s year had gone from friendly acquaintances with whom he could talk during classes to being outright hateful and petty towards him. Even the Ravenclaws, who usually were the most collected students, made it clear they weren’t impressed with Harry. Ron wasn’t talking to him, still jealous of Harry’s so-called additional fame; Hermione was trying to get them to reconcile, awkwardly, but at the same time she refused to take part or sides in the whole situation. Harry felt bad for her, but he had no intention of talking to Ron until Ron grew a brain. The Slytherins, true to form, took the chance to mock him. Despite their mockery during the class, however, Care of Magical Creatures was a balm to Harry’s nerves, because Hagrid told him that he believed Harry hadn’t entered his name for the tournament. It was nice to know he had friends that were actually willing to think instead of jump to conclusions.

Hagrid’s support aside, however, the first week was pretty bad for Harry, and the only reason he didn’t lose his temper was because Marco dragged him off to the room of requirement during all of Harry’s spare time to let him vent his frustration through training.

And, speaking of training, Marco had learnt what the first task was. Harry would have to retrieve an object from amongst the eggs of a nesting female dragon. Hermione had been extremely horrified by the news, and Harry was spending all of his training time dodging attacks and practising shielding magic while they attempted to come up with the best strategy, one that didn’t harm the eggs or the dragon. According to Marco, that would make Harry lose points.

Harry may not have entered himself for the tournament, but he was a champion now, and he intended to _win_.

Early the second week after the champions were announced, Sirius’ reply to Harry’s first letter arrived, and Harry couldn’t even pretend to be surprised when he learnt that Sirius had returned to the country. Harry would have done the same. He decided to wait until the response to his second letter came back before writing back.

Despite everything else, though, the worst day by far was that second week’s Friday.

Strangely enough, Snape had limited himself to a few snide comments and had glared the class into silence in all the classes so far (Harry suspected he had Marco to thank for that), but the Slytherins still took delight in mocking Harry the most during those classes, because Snape never gave them detention. That day, the whole bunch of them showed up wearing badges with a message supporting Diggory, and another message expressly insulting Harry.

The only reason Harry didn’t attack anyone was because Snape opened the door a minute before the usual time and barked them inside. Harry was certain he owed _that_ to Marco.

The day would almost have been bearable if Colin Creevey hadn’t shown up right as the class started, saying that Harry’s presence was required somewhere else because of the tournament.

They were going to take _pictures_ of the champions.

Harry didn’t hold back from rolling his eyes in exasperation, and he was pretty sure that Snape’s eyes gleamt in vindictive amusement as he yelled for Harry to get out of the class. It was nice to know Snape still hated him despite Marco’s presence in his life.

And, of course, Colin gushed about the damn pictures all the way up to the classroom where whoever had come was waiting, so Harry didn’t even have a moment to stop and compose himself before he had to go in. At least Colin left once they reached the right door.

Harry took a deep breath, cursed in his mind, and opened the door. All three of the other champions had arrived already, as well as Bagman and a witch and wizard that Harry didn’t know. The wizard was standing behind a camera —and staring creepily at Fleur Delacour— so Harry guessed he at least was a reporter.

He had just opened the door when Bagman spotted him and hurried over with a wide grin.

“Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come... nothing to worry about, it’s just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment—”

Harry nodded, acting as if he had any idea of what Bagman was talking about. He didn’t, of course, but he refused to look like an idiot this early into the tournament.

“After that is done, there’s going to be a little photo shoot,” Bagman continued happily, unaware of, or ignoring, Harry’s displeasure at those words. “This is Rita Skeeter,” he added, gesturing toward the witch, who had come to the door with him. “She’s doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet...”

“Maybe not that small, Ludo,” said Skeeter, looking at Harry greedily. Harry didn’t appreciate that look, it screamed ‘vulture’ in his head. “I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?” she said to Bagman, still looking at Harry. “The youngest champion, you know... to add a bit of colour?”

“Certainly!” Bagman answered, then hesitated. “That is, if Harry has no objection?”

“I have,” Harry said, barely holding back from snapping, and very pointedly pushed past them. He had absolutely no intention of giving _an interview_ , much less to someone who seemed as untrustworthy as Skeeter.

Harry proceeded to pretend he didn’t hear Bagman calling his name and moved to sit on one of the many desks that had been pushed against the walls. He opened his school bag, pulled out a random book, and pretended to study until Dumbledore and the others arrived. Thankfully, it didn’t take long.

Harry was a little disappointed to realise that Marco wasn’t here, but halfway through the pictures he decided it was probably a good thing. Marco would tease him mercilessly if he had been there to see Skeeter’s insistence on getting Harry to stand at the front of the group. Harry was just exasperated.

  


* * *

   


   


The weekend brought news with it, both good and bad ones.

The good news was Sirius’ reply to Harry’s second letter, in which he asked Harry to wait at the common room a few days before the first task —a little over two weeks away— until he was alone for a floo conversation with him. Harry wasn’t certain how much help Sirius could be in fighting a dragon, but he was glad for a chance to talk to him nonetheless. Just in case Sirius had any ideas, Harry told him that he had learnt about the dragons when he wrote back. Sirius had requested that Harry use other, less noticeable owls from now on, and Stefan was none too pleased when Harry didn’t send her with the letter.

The bad news was the article Rita Skeeter had written about the tournament. Or, more accurately, the article that was _supposed_ to be about the tournament but was in truth four pages of drivel about Harry. Skeeter had barely mentioned the other school’s champions —and here Harry had thought she would at least have the decency of exploiting Krum’s presence as well— and didn’t even mention Diggory, which didn’t win Harry any sympathies with the rest of the school. Skeeter had decided to spin Harry’s curt refusal to give her an interview as a show of nerves and fear on his part, going on about how “grimly determined” he had looked, how “his youthful face was ashen and he clutched his robes to prevent his hands from trembling”, and far too much nonsense for Harry to stomach.

He had arrived to breakfast after the mail that day, and Malfoy had started laughing at him and quoting the article even before Harry could sit down to eat. Unfortunately for Malfoy, Harry’s patience had been nonexistent by that point, and Malfoy had been down on the floor with his skin covered in boils two sentences into the article. Harry hadn’t cared enough to wait until they weren’t in sight of half the professors to curse Malfoy.

According to Fred and George, even they had only been given a detention for a weekend day thrice in the past. They were accordingly impressed, and praised the amount of power Harry had put behind his spell.

  


* * *

   


   


Unfortunately, Harry’s supposed fear of the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t the only topic Skeeter had talked about in her article.

Harry himself hadn’t wanted to read the article at first after his encounter with Malfoy, but when they met after Harry had stormed out of the Great Hall, Marco threw the newspaper at Harry and told him to read it anyway because he would be dealing with what the thing said whether he wanted to or not. Harry sat on the Moby Dick’s deck and started to read it reluctantly while Marco set Hermione, Ginny, Fred, and George to do some basic workouts. Ron had stopped coming here when he started with his jealousy fit.

Not getting an interview with Harry didn’t mean that Skeeter hadn’t talked to other students, and of course she had talked to Colin Creevey before Colin had been sent to retrieve Harry, and _of course_ that little idiot had been more than happy to talk about Harry. Harry didn’t know if everything that the article said were Colin’s words —Skeeter wasn’t exactly a reliable source, after all— but at least part of it must be, because otherwise Skeeter wouldn’t have known about Hermione. Or decided that Hermione was Harry’s girlfriend.

Harry didn’t care if that thought was Colin’s or Skeeter. He kept his eyes on Colin during lunch and followed him out of the Great Hall. Colin was elated that Harry wanted to talk to him, and it was a last minute decision that made Harry choose not to threaten him. Instead, Harry asked Colin to never again speak about him with Rita Skeeter, and counted on Colin’s hero worship of him to ensure he would comply.

Then Harry used the fact that he had to go to his detention to escape Colin’s offer of joining him and his friends for the afternoon.

  


* * *

   


   


“This is a detention,” Snape hissed, crossing his arms and looking ready to attack someone, “not a chance for you two to have fun while I babysit you.”

“It’s not about fun,” Marco said, calm and reasonable, “it’s about being practical. We both know you’ll have to throw away at least three quarters of those ingredients by the time Ace is done sorting through them, and _we_ are losing an entire afternoon of practice because you can’t admit that Malfoy more than deserved that curse.”

Snape opened his mouth, no doubt with a very scathing reply ready, but Marco didn’t let him speak. Harry was looking from one to the other, leaning against a desk in the potions’ classroom and massively entertained. This was the first time he saw Marco interacting with Snape.

“Ace needs as much training as he can get, Severus, he has two weeks left before he has to face a dragon. And yes, I’ve told him, screw the rules,” Marco added when Snape opened his mouth again. “Someone is trying to get him killed, I’m not going to make things easier for them.” Harry was surprised when Snape nodded in reluctant agreement. “Besides, I’m not asking you to babysit. I have an idea that I think you’ll enjoy far more than torturing Ace with dead toads he doesn’t find particularly disgusting to begin with. It might even be therapeutic for you.”

“An idea?” Snape asked, and Harry thought he didn’t sound as snide as was his trademark when he was disgruntled by something.

“Help us. We’re working on Ace’s reflexes while we come up with a strategy to retrieve the object.”

“And how would I... _help_ you?”

Marco smirked. Harry did _not_ like that smirk.

“By cursing him, obviously. Nothing lethal or maiming, and nothing that’ll knock him out, but anything else is up to you.”

That was how Harry spent his Sunday afternoon avoiding Marco’s sharp kicks and some of Snape’s more annoyingly creative curses.

  


* * *

   


   


Harry’s last class on Mondays was Divination. Ever since he had been announced as one of the champions, Trelawney had taken to predicting his death in even more gruesome ways than was her custom. Skeeter’s article only gave her fuel for more predictions: Trelawney had believed Skeeter’s statements of Harry’s supposed fear over the tournament, and seemed to relish the chance to try to terrify him. Adding those predictions to the badly hidden laughter of his non-Gryffindor classmates, Harry’s patience was once again practically gone by the time the class was over.

He decided to skip dinner at the Great Hall, aware of how likely he was to earn himself another detention if someone so much as referenced Skeeter’s article, and chose to go visit Hagrid instead.

There was something very interesting about Hagrid. A few days ago, Marco had pointed out that Hagrid seemed very taken with Madame Maxime. Close observation on Harry’s side had proven that Hagrid was as subtle about his crush as he was about anything else, and, well, Harry was Hagrid’s friend, and he had a very important duty to fulfil.

“Have you asked Maxime out yet?” Harry asked the moment Hagrid opened his door.

Hagrid’s beard wasn’t enough to cover his blush.

  


* * *

   


   


Harry was blearily searching through his trunk one morning for a clean set of his uniform when his hand grasped the handle of his broomstick. The broomstick that he couldn’t use this year because there was no quidditch due to the Triwizard Tournament. That thought was immediately followed by the realization that he could still use his broomstick, and he felt like an absolute idiot for not having thought of it before. Flying should be a much safer way to reach the dragon’s nest than running in there would be, and Harry could easily summon the broomstick at the start of the task.

Harry had known the summoning charm for years thanks to Marco —in fact, they were studying that exact spell right now in Charms class, and Flitwick was so impressed with Harry’s control of it that Harry had been free of homework for that class for weeks— and he even was learning to cast it wandlessly. Which meant Harry had a strategy all set up for the task, and now he only had to adapt his dodging practice to his considerable skill flying.

Hermione was dubious when Harry asked her to join them for practice from now on when she could spare the time, but she agreed. Harry refused to admit that he had thought of asking her because of the practice session with Snape.

  


* * *

   


   


The Saturday before the first task, students were given permission to visit Hogsmeade. Harry agreed to accompany Hermione under the condition that he refused to go looking for Ron. Ron was still being an idiot, and while Harry understood that Hermione wanted them to reconcile, Harry refused to take any steps in that direction because he wasn’t the one at fault here.

Harry put on his best effort to ignore most of the Hogwarts students around the village, though by now they already understood that Harry _would_ retaliate if they angered him enough, and thus kept their mockery to relatively safe spaces like classrooms, and most of their comments behind his back. There were some exceptions, of course, but fortunately they didn’t run into any of them.

Their first stop, as usual, was Honeydukes, where Harry ignored Hermione’s disapproving looks and spent a good handful of galleons on sweets. By now the shopkeepers knew him well enough that his purchases didn’t garner him any strange looks, and he even received three extra chocolate frogs for free.

As they headed for the door, Harry made use of his very well honed reflexes by ducking behind a display when, through the open door, he saw Rita Skeeter walking with her photographer. It was a very annoying reminder of the fact that she would be there for the first task.

“Do you think I could convince her to get an interview from the dragon?” Harry asked Hermione in a low voice once Skeeter had passed the door.

Hermione scoffed.

“I doubt even she would be that reckless.”

“Pity.”

After a few moments had passed and Harry was certain that Skeeter wouldn’t come back, they finally exited Honeydukes and headed for the Three Broomsticks.

They sat at a corner table once they had managed to order their butterbeers, and Harry very pointedly didn’t glare in Ron’s direction. Ron was sitting with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. According to Fred and George, Ron really knew that Harry hadn’t lied to him, but was too stubborn to admit it and refused to talk about the subject altogether.

Harry and Hermione were approached by Moody and Hagrid at one point. Ostensibly, Hagrid just wanted to greet them, but he asked Harry to meet him later that night and said something very obvious and unsubtle about Harry making sure that he brought a cloak that earned them a side look from Moody. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Moody had guessed Harry owned an invisibility cloak from Hagrid’s request.

  


* * *

   


   


That night, Hagrid showed Harry the dragons.

  


* * *

   


   


Harry came back to the school to find Marco and Hermione waiting in a classroom near the Gryffindor common room. He told them that Hagrid had wanted to show him the dragons —a really nice gesture that Harry could appreciate even if he had already known— and finally Marco returned to his small form and they headed for the common room. It was tonight that Sirius had asked to talk to Harry, after all.

The common room was empty when they arrived, and Harry and Hermione sat on a couch in front of the fireplace while Marco settled on a table next to it. It didn’t take long for Sirius’ head to appear on the fireplace, and Harry was glad to see he looked far healthier than he had back in June.

Marco’s presence made Sirius ask about him. That was what Harry had intended when he asked Marco to come along. He had been thinking about it ever since the summer, but Harry had decided he wanted to tell Sirius about Marco —Marco was a little dubious about it, but ultimately agreed that Sirius would need to know the truth sooner or later if he was going to be part of Harry’s life. Harry wouldn’t tell him through the floo, of course, given that he didn’t know how safe the network was, but it was good to have Sirius notice that something was off about Marco.

They spoke about the tournament, mostly, though the suspicions behind it also came up. Sirius agreed with the assessment of the situation that Harry gave him, and reminded them that someone had tried to attack Moody the day before the school year started. Harry hadn’t paid much attention to that at the moment, but now that Sirius mentioned it, it was suspicious. Harry told him about his plan to deal with the dragon in an attempt to ease Sirius’ worry, and Hermione assured him that Harry had been practicing nonstop since they had learnt what the task would be.

Sirius asked _how_ they had known, but before Harry could figure out a way of replying without really lying but not mentioning Marco either, but then he heard a noise coming from the staircase and he reacted before he could think twice, telling Sirius to cut the call.

He probably wouldn’t have if he had been looking at Marco, because the person that showed up at the top of the stairs was Ron.

Had Harry been alone, there would likely have been a confrontation, but as it was Ron glanced at Hermione, turned on his heels and headed back to the dorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have one of the first noticeable differences. In canon Rita Skeeter was banned from the school after this first article was written, and while it is never stated outright, it's clear that she was banned for dragging Harry into that closet and harassing him for her "interview" (and yes, I know she appeared after the first task, but she jumped at Harry out of fucking trees when Harry and friends were returning to the castle after it: she was clearly not allowed in by then). As you saw, Harry refuses to give her an interview here and avoids being kidnapped, and as a consequence Skeeter won't be banned, changing how that part of the plot will develop from now on :)
> 
> About Severus. Some of you may have noticed that his behaviour this chapter is different from canon, and Harry is right when he thinks it's because of Marco. There was a fight before the potions class in canon, however here Severus knows of how short Harry's temper is at the moment, and thanks to Marco he also knows that Harry can be far more dangerous than the average student. While Severus doesn't particularly like his students, he doesn't want anyone to get seriously injured either (or having to deal with the hassle of it happening on his watch), so he's making a point of ensuring there isn't a chance for a fight. He knew about the badges, so he ordered the students inside the moment he realised Harry had arrived outside the classroom. Also, in canon Severus thought Harry had entered his name into the tournament, or at least acted as if he believed so, but here he knows he hasn't and thanks to Marco he also knows Harry isn't fond of the media side of the tournament or how the other students behave with him, so that's where gets his fun, by watching him suffer.
> 
> And I honestly hadn't planned their first interaction outside a classroom post-Marco until the exact moment I wrote the detention scene.


	41. The first task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I’m sorry I took so long to update this story. In part, it’s because I landed myself sick for a little over two months, but the rest has been sheer frustration with this chapter. I intended for it to be longer, and I don’t like the result if I’m being honest, but I’ve decided to stop struggling with it and move on with the story. It’s short, because it refused to cooperate but I wanted to cut things where I did, as there is a clear “move on” feeling to the narration past this point.
> 
> Again, I’m sorry about the delay and I hope to have the next chapter out in a reasonable amount of time.
> 
> Brighter news in the bottom note.

“I’m thinking I should tell Diggory about the dragons,” Harry told Marco on Sunday morning during a break from their risky flying training. “Hagrid took Maxime there, too, and I’m sure she’ll tell Delacour.” Hagrid probably hadn’t even thought of that possibility; knowing him, he most likely believed seeing dragons was an amazing plan for a date. “And I saw Karkaroff when I was leaving, so Krum has to know about the dragons by now.”

“Go ahead,” Marco said with a shrug. “I think it’s crazy to pit a kid against a dragon without even a warning. Not even the best student in the school would be ready for that with the curriculum you learn here.”

There was a joke about Defence Against the Dark Arts that Harry could have made then, but he simply nodded. He would have to catch Diggory in the hallways tomorrow, because the first task was on Tuesday.

“Can you help me track him down?”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry had to cast a spell to rip Diggory’s school bag open to get him away from his friends, but he managed to tell Diggory about the dragons. Seeing the horror on Diggory’s face, Harry was sure he had made the right choice.

The moment Diggory left, Moody showed up and dragged Harry off to his office. Harry was unsurprised to realise that Moody didn’t care about breaking the cheating rules: then again, Moody _had_ figured out someone wanted to kill Harry when his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire. Moody was here for security’s sake, so it made sense that would be his main priority.

Moody seemed satisfied when Harry assured him that he had come up with a plan to get through the task as well as possible.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, the day of the first task arrived. To say that Hermione was terrified for Harry’s safety would be an understatement. She knew that Harry had prepared as much as possible to face the dragon, and she knew that both he and Marco were certain that things would go well, but Hermione couldn’t push her fear aside no matter how many times she tried to reassure herself that everything would turn out well.

Harry wasn’t helping. He was doing a decent enough job of appearing serious and even worried, but Hermione knew him well enough to see the contained excitement on his face. He was looking forward to this.

Hermione watched in horror as Professor McGonagall approached their table to take Harry away for the first task. Harry threw Hermione a reassuring smile over his shoulder, but she didn’t feel much better. She knew him, and she knew how reckless he could be —even more than she had witnessed, according to the stories she had heard from both Harry and Marco— and she knew that him being certain that things would go well didn’t mean that things _would_ go well.

Hermione walked in a daze to the place where no one else knew that the dragons were waiting, and it was only thanks to her honed reflexes that she managed to reach out to catch a bag that had almost fallen on her head. Inside, there were some biscuits (salty ones, because she wasn’t very fond of sweets) and a short note.

_He’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ve seen him fight, and I’ve fought dragons. It’ll be okay._

Oh, _of course_ Marco had fought dragons. He probably thought it was a great way to pass the time. Hermione almost smiled.

Ginny appeared next to her in the crowd.

“You know what it is, don’t you?” Ginny whispered, low enough that nobody else would hear.

Hermione nodded sombrely.

“You’ll see soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ginny heard a loud roar as she climbed the stairs to the makeshift stands. She froze, along with most people around her. Hermione took her hand and nodded at Ginny to continue. Hermione’s face had gone white, and it was clear she was barely holding herself together now. Ginny didn’t like how this task was looking.

They found a seat on the first line of the stands and sat down. Ginny didn’t let go of Hermione’s hand and Hermione didn’t let go either. Fred and George slid on the seats next to them, one on each side. Ginny knew it was their silent way of showing their support.

“Everything okay around here?” George asked cheerfully.

Neither Ginny nor Hermione had time to answer. There were gasps and shrieks all over the crowd, and Ginny turned with morbid fascination to see a group of wizards bring in... a _dragon_. A large, real-life dragon and a bunch of eggs with it.

“Hey, that’s Charlie!” Fred exclaimed, pointing at one of the wizards.

“So that’s why he said we’d be meeting him soon,” George added. They both were doing a good job of appearing calm, but Ginny knew them too well to miss their concern.

As for Ginny herself, she felt as if her blood had frozen in her veins.

Harry had to fight _a dragon_.

 

* * *

 

 

A loud whistle cut through the crowd’s initial reaction to the dragons, and Severus watched as the students quickly switched their original horror for excitement about the upcoming show. He scoffed. Of course the students wouldn’t find anything odd about watching four children go up against dragons as long as they weren’t the ones in the arena.

How unsurprising.

Ludo Bagman ran up to the commentator’s stand, very nearly late.

Cedric Diggory stepped into the arena, his movements stiff as he clearly attempted to hide how terrified he was, and the crowd cheered wildly.

 

* * *

 

 

Ron felt sick. He had allowed his first reaction when Harry was chosen as a champion to keep hold of him for nearly a month, and now... now Cedric Diggory was trying to get past a dragon, and in no time it would be _Harry_ down there trying to do the same. And instead of being a good friend and supporting Harry when the rest of the school had turned on him, Ron had turned on Harry too because... what? Being a champion gave Harry more fame? A fame Harry didn’t even care about in the first place?

Diggory barely managed to dodge a stream of fire.

Ron wouldn’t want to be the one down there for all the fame in the world. Harry was going to be down there soon. And yes, maybe Harry would find it exciting (he had been a crazy pirate, in the past), but that didn’t change the situation.

Ron stood up from his seat and walked to where Hermione, Ginny, Fred and George were sitting at the front. He plopped down next to Fred.

“You saw reason?” Fred asked, not moving his eyes away from Diggory.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco had perched himself on the highest point of the stands, where no heads would get in his way, to watch. Diggory had just managed to acquire the egg. He had received a nasty-looking burn, but he hadn’t done bad at all for someone who had known about the dragons only for a little over a day.

Seeing the judges mark such a task felt like a mockery to Marco. How did you rate survival against odds that would kill most people? Even with the so-called security measures, there were dozens of scenarios in which one of the dragons could kill a champion before anyone could intervene.

Fleur Delacour stepped out of the champions’ tent next.

 

* * *

 

 

Time was truly an odd thing. Hermione watched in a strange daze, one that felt as an eternity and yet barely more than mere seconds once it was over, as first Cedric Diggory, then Fleur Delacour and third Victor Krum did their best to get past the dragons and retrieve the golden eggs without dying in the attempt.

And then Harry was the one stepping out of the champions’ tent. He moved at a relaxed pace, his wand held loosely in his right hand and his left hand shoved into a pocket. He had removed his school robe, so that his orange belt and modified uniform tie were perfectly visible alongside the red beads of his necklace (a tiny part of Hermione’s brain that was trying to think of anything but the task pointed out Professor McGonagall would disapprove of Harry’s attire).

Many people would think that Harry was doing an amazing job of appearing relaxed, but Hermione knew that was how he really felt.

He was up against the Hungarian Horntail.

“Tell me he has a plan,” Ginny begged. Hermione knew what she was thinking about: the many adventures Harry and Marco had told them about in which plans simply had not featured.

“He has a plan,” Hermione reassured her. Or maybe she was trying to reassure herself. “And it’s a good one.”

Unfortunately, that knowledge didn’t stop Hermione from being terrified. She doubted it helped anyone else sitting with her.

Harry raised his wand to summon his Firebolt, but the spell was lost amongst the loud cheering of the crowd and nobody seemed to know what was happening until the broomstick zoomed in and stopped before Harry.

It was on.

 

* * *

 

 

Watching Potter zoom around the dragon was odd. Severus didn’t know if this particular plan had existed the day of Potter’s unexpectedly satisfying detention, but it was clear the training was paying off. The dragon was focused and fierce in her attacks, and yet those attacks were too slow. The dragon really didn’t hold a candle to the speed at which Marco had moved on Sunday afternoon, and it was clear that the only difficulty Potter was having was to get the dragon to move away from the eggs enough for him to reach the golden egg.

Until Potter changed his strategy. Instead of trying to force the dragon to move away from the eggs, he _dived straight towards her._ The screams of the crowd were so loud that they drowned the dragon’s roar before she threw a massive column of fire at Potter. Potter waved his wand, and a shield shimmered around him. It wasn’t a standard _protego_ , which would have been useless in this case, but a fire-specific shield that allowed Potter to rush straight through the attack unscathed.

By the time the dragon realised that she hadn’t burnt Potter to a crisp it was too late, Potter was too close to her eggs for her to try anything, and he snatched the golden egg with the hand that wasn’t holding his wand.

It wasn’t until Potter was leaving the enclosure, amongst the raucous cheering of the crowd and Bagman’s gushing, that Severus realised what he had witnessed. That hadn’t been James Potter’s son. For all his bravado, cocky James Potter would never have dared to fly straight into a dragon’s fire. No, that had been Portgas D. Ace, the pirate, taking the straightforward approach in a battle.

 

* * *

 

 

As much as Marco wanted to follow Ace and congratulate him, he flew to the judges’ location instead. Rita Skeeter was there, in her role of special correspondent from the Daily Prophet, and Marco wanted to keep an eye on her.

She looked positively thrilled, he QuickNotes Quill rushing over a parchment notebook, and Marco was sure they had another article about Ace coming soon.

He settled on the railing before Albus and waited for Ace’s reappearance so the judges could announce his marks.

Ron was with Ace and a tearful Hermione when they showed up, and Marco was glad to see Ron had gotten his head out of his arse.

Ace’s performance had been the best, and not even Karkaroff’s biased mark was enough to keep him away from the first position.

Skeeter tried to get an interview from Ace again, and Ace told her to get lost.

 

* * *

 

 

Ron nearly jumped out of his skin when Marco flew into the owlery. They had come here almost immediately after the task, so Harry could scribble a quick letter for Sirius about the task that they would send with Pig.

While Harry and Hermione had forgiven him with relative ease —even if Harry had made it clear that he wouldn’t take a repeat of Ron’s jealousy fit— and had spent the way up here updating Ron on everything he had missed, the reaction Ron was most nervous about was Marco’s. Marco hadn’t done _anything_ during the time of the fight; he hadn’t tried to reason with Ron the way he had intervened last year during the Firebolt incident, nor had he targeted Ron with any of his pranks. That made Ron fear Marco was truly angry with him. Or disappointed.

Marco didn’t transform, but he met Ron’s eyes for the first time in nearly a month and Ron knew it was the second option.

 

* * *

 

 

“Now, before Hermione’s rule-abiding side has a stroke,” Marco said the following day in a secluded classroom close to the room of requirement, “I’m not going to tell you what the second task is. You have time to figure it out. _However_ , there is something related to the task that we have to cover.” He fixed his eyes on Ace. “Do you know how to swim?”

Ten minutes later, the room of requirement had provided them with a large pool, because of course Ace hadn’t learnt to swim in this life. For obvious reasons, Marco couldn’t help him, but Hermione had volunteered. Once Ace had the basics down, Marco intended to recruit some help to act as hindrances and opponents in the water.

Ace didn’t complain when Marco told him that they would intensify his training on nonverbal magic. Ace agreed that it would be extremely useful underwater.

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday morning dawned with Skeeter’s newest compilation of spewed words. Harry wanted to ignore it as much as he had wanted to ignore the first one, but he knew better than to do that by now.

“Mind giving me a summary?” he asked Hermione, because there was a difference between knowing what that garbage said and actually _reading_ it.

Just like last time, Skeeter barely mentioned the other champions, which would no doubt offend them and many other people. Harry thought they were lucky.

What surprised Harry was the change of tone in the article in regards to him. His second refusal of an interview must have angered Skeeter, because now she painted him as a cocky, haughty, rude and overconfident brat who thought he was better than anyone else after “barely surviving” the first task.

“You know,” Hermione frowned once she was done summarising the article for Harry, “I’m not sure if I should be worried that she’s got your personality down better now she’s trying to make you look bad. Not that she has it _right_ , but...”

Harry waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry, I promise I’ll stay the way I am.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Hermione joked.

Fortunately, the backlash from this second article was much less noticeable than the first one had been. While some people, such as Draco Malfoy and his friends, delighted in quoting it where Harry could hear them, the general resentment towards Harry in the school had diminished considerably now that the students had experienced a taste of what the Triwizard Tournament truly was like.

Harry was more often congratulated on his performance during the first task than mocked for Skeeter’s article about it, and he welcomed the reprieve in teenage pettiness.

Now, if only Marco would tell him how to figure out the damned screeching egg...

 

* * *

 

 

Ron stayed behind on Saturday after the first group training he had attended in a month. He had told Harry he wanted to talk to Marco, and Harry gave him a thumbs up before dragging everyone else out of the room of requirement.

“You’re not angry with me?” Ron blurted out when the door closed. Because Marco had acted as if nothing had happened with him ever since the first task, and Ron didn’t understand. If he was the one in Marco’s position, he would be spitting mad at himself for the way he had behaved.

“No,” Marco replied, straightforward. Ron blinked, but before he could think of anything to say Marco continued. “You’re just a kid, and you have your issues. Your reaction was dumb and irrational, and I hope you’ve learnt your lesson and will think things through more carefully from now on before jumping to conclusions.” Marco crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Or at least be mature enough to accept you made a mistake once the original outburst passes.”

Ron felt his ears burn in embarrassment. That... hadn’t been his best idea ever.

“I...” he started, but he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t he owe Marco an apology too, for thinking he had helped Harry behind everybody’s back?

Marco shook his head, uncrossed his arms and approached him.

“Stop beating yourself over it, you won’t change anything. Just make sure you learn something from this instead of trying to pretend it never happened.”

Ron nodded. That made sense. Why did these things made so much sense when others were the ones to tell him about them?

“So you’re not angry?” he asked, just to make sure.

“No,” Marco said. Then he smirked. Ron didn’t like that smirk. “However,” he didn’t like that word either, “I believe you could do with some consequences for your actions.”

“What consequences?” Ron asked cautiously. He _really_ hoped Marco didn’t mean extra training or something like that.

“Well, you see, when Ace told me about that horrid dress robe of yours, I thought I could buy you a new, decent one. But then this happened, and now I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the one you have.”

Ron spluttered.

“What? What _are_ those robes for?”

Ron had made his best effort to avoid thinking about the ugly robe in his truck, but he suddenly had a very bad feeling about it.

Marco refused to answer his question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that part is over with. I never intended to modify the first task much, but I honestly hoped I could get more scenes out of it. It... simply didn’t happen. Still, I’m going to use it to further the development of a couple characters (on a side note, working on Ron is harder than I expected).
> 
> Now, if anyone is interested (and hasn’t seen it around in another story), I've started a tumblr sideblog where I post updates about how my writing is going, what stories I update, what I'll be working on... and the occasional cracky thing that happens to me while writing. Here's the URL: maisstories.tumblr.com (I’m not posting the direct link because for some reason it doesn’t work for me :/)
> 
> And we got more art! :D This was a Christmas present from FoxMii, and I’m really sorry it took me so long to be able to show it because it’s simply amazing! Here it is :D
> 
>  


	42. New and old friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here I am with the next chapter :D Now, I know I haven’t replied to all the reviews, but I just got back from my holidays and decided to update first.

Marco was flying towards one of the closed windows of Albus’ office when he froze mid-flight. There was someone else inside the office with Albus, and it wasn’t a professor, one of the headmasters from the other schools or even a tournament judge.

Still, the presence felt familiar to Marco, and it took him a moment to realise who it was. He had spent a good deal of time ensuring he didn’t sense this presence in the school two years ago.

 _Dobby the house elf_.

This was unexpected, and Marco hadn’t the faintest idea of why Dobby would be at Hogwarts now that he was free of Lucius Malfoy and thus away from nefarious Death Eater plans.

He waited until Dobby’s presence disappeared from the office before tapping on the window with his beak. Albus smiled at him and obligingly waved the window open.

“Did you have a good flight?” he asked. “I hope the students weren’t misbehaving too badly.”

Marco settled on his perch and turned his head up. He had caught a group of third year Gryffindors laughing at a first year Hufflepuff and her unfortunately large nose. Those students were now sporting rainbow-coloured hair and robes that nobody would be able to fix until they figured out it hadn’t been caused by a spell or a magical product, but instead simple muggle paint. The school’s house elves had a policy of not removing the results of Marco’s pranks unless directly ordered to do so, and everybody seemed to assume that if a house elf didn’t clean or fix something it was because not even they could do so.

 _Wizards_ , Marco thought with an inner eye roll.

“Oh, dear,” Albus said, reading Marco’s gesture correctly. He had known for years that Marco was behind a portion of the pranks that took place in the school, but he acknowledged they weren’t dangerous ones and had neglected to mention Marco’s actions to anyone in the staff since he figured it out.

Marco glanced around the room, looking for something that would allow him to bring the subject of Dobby up, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

“You missed a very interesting meeting while you dealt with unruly students,” Albus said, his eyes twinkling. Marco turned to him and tilted his head. “Hogwarts has, for the first time ever, hired a house elf.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was past midnight, far away from anywhere Filch or the prefects were patrolling, when Marco settled on the floor against a wall inside a random empty classroom.

“Dobby,” he called, hoping he would listen just like all the other house elves did. Marco didn’t relish the idea of having this conversation in the kitchens with an audience of far too conservative house elves.

After a long beat of silence, Dobby appeared before him. He was covered from head to toes in a truly horrid combination of clothes, and the sight would have been amusing had Dobby not looked so utterly terrified.

“D-Did Sir call?” Dobby asked, doing a pretty decent job of keeping his stuttering to a minimum.

Marco closed his eyes for a moment.

“I’m not going to attack you, Dobby. I just want to talk,” he said, fixing Dobby with a calm stare.

Dobby looked reluctant, giving Marco as much of a covert distrustful look as his bulging eyes allowed, but he nodded. Because it was expected of him and some habits were too hard to break, Marco had no doubt.

“What does Sir want from Dobby?”

“I...” Marco had been thinking about how to phrase this in a way that Dobby would understand his meaning. “I won’t apologise for what happened two years ago. However, as misguided as your actions were, I understand that you had Harry Potter’s best interests in mind and I appreciate that. Given that you are at the school now, and no longer bound by your former master’s orders, I thought we could perhaps make our peace over what happened.”

“Peace, Sir?” Dobby asked, blinking owlishly. Marco had seen the confusion grow on Dobby’s face as he spoke.

“We could start anew, so to speak. I promise I won’t threaten you again if you promise to come to me with information about any dangers you learn of to Harry Potter or any other student instead of attempting to take care of them yourself.”

Realisation dawned on Dobby’s face.

“Dobby can do that, Sir!” he assured Marco. “Dobby has heard what Sir does for the school, he’ll be pleased to help!”

Marco smiled.

“In that case I rescind my last threat: I won’t kill you if you approach Harry Potter.”

That was when Dobby jumped at him in a grateful, sobbing mess.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me Dobby was here?” Ace asked a few days later.

They were on the crow’s nest, watching the beautiful starred sky the Room of Requirement had provided for them.’

“I figured you’d meet him eventually. How did it go?”

Ace snorted.

“He jumped me, then rambled a good five minutes about how generous “sir Marco” had been by letting him be my friend,” Ace raised an eyebrow here, and Marco studiously ignored him. Ace shook his head, the humour fading from his face. “Then he showed us Winky.”

“How is she doing?” Marco asked. Albus had mentioned her, and while Marco agreed that it was a good choice to give her a home, he wasn’t sure how things would go over the next few months whenever Barty Crouch came to Hogwarts on tournament-related business.

“Badly. I might punch Crouch when I see him next.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Yule Ball had finally been brought up to the students. In Harry’s case, McGonagall had announced it at the end on one of her classes. Ron had been horrified when he had finally understood that he really would have to wear his horrid dress robes in front of the entire school, and Harry had limited himself to pat him on the shoulder and told him to be brave. Harry knew of Marco’s original plan to offer Ron decent robes once the news came out, and he agreed that Ron didn’t deserve the courtesy now. He could use some harmless consequences to make him think twice about his actions in the future. When McGonagall had asked Harry to stay behind, he had nodded numbly at the news that he was supposed to open the dance alongside the other champions and their partners. He had known as much, but he had blissfully pushed the information to the back of his mind.

“It’s a pity I can’t just bring a random guy from outside the school without drawing attention,” he grumbled that afternoon in the Room of Requirement, a hill overlooking the sea today. Ron had left for the common room, glumly muttering about the unfairness of the dance, and Hermione was at the library.

“Even if you could, can you imagine what Skeeter would write about it?” Marco said, then he smirked. “Imagine the scandal, Harry Potter bringing an adult man as his dance partner. I’d have the whole wizarding society after my head.”

Harry snorted.

“Yeah, not the best idea. But I don’t know who to ask. I don’t want to ask someone who’ll get the wrong idea and think I’m interested in them. Ginny’s barely started to get over her crush, and asking her even if she knows the truth would be cruel, and I know Hermione would say yes, but she might want to go with someone else. I don’t want to interfere with her life.”

“I might have a suggestion,” Marco said unexpectedly.

Harry sat up and looked over at him.

“You know someone in the school who’d go with me without thinking it’s a date?”

“More or less. I know a third year student who would appreciate a friend far more than a boyfriend.”

“One of the students you look after?” Harry asked, curious. He had never asked much about those students, though he heard of the occasional prank that he suspected had been Marco’s doing.

“Yes. She’s a bit eccentric, and her classmates mock and shun her because of it, but she’s a nice girl. She’s also the first student who has figured out I target bullies without me being obvious about it,” Marco said, and he sounded fond as he spoke. It was clear he liked this girl.

“What’s her name?”

“Luna Lovegood. She’s in Ravenclaw.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, are you Luna?” Harry said two days later, approaching the girl Marco had pointed out to him.

Harry had found her with the help of the Marauder’s Map, wandering the hallways of the sixth floor in the evening.

She turned to him.

“And you’re Harry Potter,” she stated. Her eyes didn’t wander over to Harry’s scar, which was a new development when someone met him for the first time.

“Yeah, that’s me. I wanted to ask you something. It’s a bit weird, but I promise I’m not pulling your leg,” Harry said, because he knew that was what most people would think he was doing. Luna tilted her head. “Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

There was a short pause following Harry’s admittedly awkward request.

“You’re right, that’s weird,” Luna said finally.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“I know. It’s just... I want to take a friend, you know? Not a date as in a girlfriend, just... a friend. Someone told me you’d like a friend more than a boyfriend, so I thought to invite you.”

“You want to be my friend?” Luna asked, puzzlement clear in her voice. Marco had told Harry that she had no friends, and Harry could believe it from her reaction alone.

“Yeah. So, what do you say?”

“I’d like that,” she said finally, and Harry let out an internal sigh of relief. There went one of the weirdest conversations he’d ever had.

“So, what are you doing up here?” he asked, trying to avoid an awkward silence.

“I’m looking for my things. My roommates hid them,” Luna replied easily, as though it was a common occurrence. Perhaps it was.

 _Bastards_.

“Want some help with that?” Harry offered, holding back his first offer of cursing her roommates. He’d leave that one up to Marco.

 

* * *

 

 

Ron elbowed Hermione at dinner to draw her attention away from her law book.

“What?” she asked, somewhat testily.

“Look at that,” he said, gesturing with his head to the doors, where Harry had just come in talking to Loony Lovegood of all people.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, clearly sharing Ron’s confusion.

“What’s Harry doing with her?” Ron asked. He had no idea Harry even knew who she was.

Hermione shrugged.

Harry waved to Lovegood before they parted ways, each heading for their table, and he came to sit next to Ron.

“What were you doing with Loony Lovegood?” Ron asked immediately.

He wasn’t expecting for Harry to glare at him, but that was what he did.

“Don’t call her that,” Harry said. “She’s nice, I invited her to the Yule Ball.”

“You _what_?” Ron asked, too surprised to be properly intimidated by Harry’s glare. “Why? You could take any girl!” Ron wasn’t blind, he had noticed how many girls had been looking at Harry and giggling ever since the Yule Ball had been announced a couple days ago.

“I don’t want to take any girl. The last thing I need is for some girl to think I want to date her,” Harry said and rolled his eyes. “I want to go with a friend, and Luna is okay with that.”

“You could’ve asked Hermione,” Ron said.

“I could, but maybe she wants to go with a guy she likes,” Harry said, and looked at Hermione on Ron’s other side.

Ron couldn’t hold back a snort. Hermione? _Dating_?

Hermione glared at him, then turned pointedly to look at Harry.

“Thank you, Harry. That was very mindful of you,” she said stiffly, and Ron realised belatedly that he had put his foot in his mouth. Again.

“I don’t mean—“ he started, but Hermione turned from Harry to her plate.

“I don’t care,” she said, stabbing a potato with her fork.

Ron wisely decided to shut his mouth. He remembered well how Hermione had punched Malfoy last year, and he didn’t want to test her patience.

 

* * *

 

While the students worried themselves sick about finding partners for the Yule Ball, Marco found himself unexpectedly busy with a surveillance task. Rita Skeeter had shown up at the school a few times since the first task, and she attempted to get as many interviews as she could. Most students were more than happy to oblige, because a chance to appear on the newspaper was too good for them to pass, but the teachers Skeeter had approached had all refused to indulge her. That was, unfortunately, until she asked Hagrid.

Hagrid was too friendly and naïve for his own good, and he agreed to entertain Skeeter one afternoon, believing she was interested in his classes. Marco spent said afternoon hidden outside of Hagrid’s window, listening as Skeeter asked him about Ace. From her questions, Marco could tell that she intended to continue showing a negative image of Ace. Hagrid didn’t give Skeeter anything to use, of course, and she left the cabin in a huff.

Marco tapped the window and waited for Hagrid to let him in.

 

* * *

 

Harry was asked out to the Yule Ball twice before the news that he had already found a dance partner spread through the school. He kept Luna’s identity a secret, because he didn’t want some scorned girl to take her frustration out on her, and listened in amusement to the speculations of who his partner could be. Hermione had been the first option people had thought of, but she had been quick to say that she wasn’t Harry’s partner, and the same had happened with Ginny. That left the school’s rumour mill floundering to find a candidate.

Meanwhile, Harry got to know Luna, which in turn resulted in Ginny showing an interest in her and becoming her friend as well. Ron and Hermione weren’t particularly interested in getting to know Luna, but that wasn’t important. The important thing was that Luna now had a friend in her own year, one who had no issues jumping to her defence. The story of how Ginny had cursed two Ravenclaw girls in her year for breaking Luna’s school bag had spread quickly. Fred and George took an interest in Luna as well, and they decided they liked her, which worked wonders to persuade other students to leave her alone, as did her friendship with Harry.

Funnily enough, despite many people knowing they were friends, Luna’s name never came up as a candidate for Harry’s dance partner.

Meanwhile, Hermione had been asked to go with a mysterious boy whose identity she insisted on keeping a secret, much to Ron’s frustration. Ron, who was having no luck in finding a date, had asked her as a last resort, and she had been offended by the way he had handled it. Both Harry and Hermione had agreed to let Ron fend for himself when it came to finding a date. The only concession Harry was willing to make was to defend Ron from the people who laughed at him after Ron had, for some reason, asked Fleur Delacour to be his partner in the middle of the Great Hall.

Harry had spent an afternoon in detention with Filch for cursing a group of sixth years the day after that fiasco.

 

* * *

 

 

On the last week before the holidays, Marco sensed Fred and George in a secluded classroom on the fifth floor. Curious, Marco flew there. As the corridor was empty of both students and portraits —the perfect place for student activities that went against the school rules— he transformed before the door. Fred and George had cast some pretty decent wards on it, but Marco had dealt with far worse. He reached for the door handle and the wards snapped around his hand.

When he opened the door, he found Fred and George standing next to a desk with their wands aimed at the door. They relaxed when they saw him.

Marco raised his eyebrows.

“You know, if you’d done that to a professor you’d have a detention already.”

“Got lots of those,” Fred said with a shrug. He pocketed his wand.

“What are you two up to?” Marco asked, glancing around at the classroom. He had expected to find a cauldron simmering with one of their experiments, perhaps a work bench with artefacts of dubious safety, but the only things he could see were a piece of parchment and two quills.

Fred and George tensed and exchanged a glance. George looked at Marco, then back at Fred, and Marco waited while they had their silent conversation. Finally, Fred sighed and they turned to him.

“Can you close the door?” George asked.

Curious, Marco did and walked over to a chair.

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah.” Fred replied with a sigh.

“You see, back at the World Cup we decided to gamble a little bit,” George started to explain.”

“And we got the right result, so we won. Bagman paid us, but it turned out to be leprechaun gold,” Fred continued.

“We thought he’d made a mistake and wrote him about it, but he’s been making excuses for _months_ now.”

“So we think it wasn’t a mistake.”

“And those were all our savings,” George concluded. “So we’re trying to get them back.”

“You gambled with Ludo Bagman,” Marco repeated, taking in their annoyed faces. “You know, he doesn’t have a particularly good reputation when it comes to gambling. If he’s not returned your money by now, he’s not going to give it back willingly.”

“Well, we’re not giving up,” Fred snapped. “We want it back.”

“I’m not telling you to give up, just pointing out a fact,” Marco said.

“Got any ideas?” Fred asked.

“Blackmail?” Marco offered. “Though I don’t know anything you could blackmail him with. Threats would probably get you in trouble instead of getting your money back...” Marco mused, and he snorted at the comically horrified looks on Fred and George’s faces. “Pirate,” he said, waving at himself.

“You’ve blackmailed people before?” George asked, curiosity plain in his voice.

“Occasionally, though I’m more inclined towards using threats. But you need a clear advantage to do that. While it likely won’t get your money back, you could try to corner Bagman at the ball and demand your money back face to face. Depending on how he reacts, you can start thinking of a course of action to take.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everybody who asked about Luna: here she is :D I wasn’t going to keep one of my favourite characters away until her canon appearance in fifth year.


End file.
